


Clipped wings

by HuesOfAColourlessMind



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 70,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuesOfAColourlessMind/pseuds/HuesOfAColourlessMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock failed to solve a puzzle that almost cost John's life, he realised the harm The Work brought to his blogger. Afraid of what the future could bring and a powerful enemy watching their moves, Sherlock did what he had to in order to keep him safe. Even if that meant ending their friendship and never see him again. </p><p>"Have it your way then, Sherlock. I'll make it impossible for you to find me, let alone Mycroft. I see you or his minions near me, don't you think I won't rip your heads off no matter if I end up in jail".</p><p>7 years and Sherlock had no clue of where he might be. Besides, John didn't want to see him. But things changed after Sherlock found a box John left behind. Did John really wanted to go? Is he still alive and where?</p><p> </p><p>  <strong></strong><br/><em> Last chapter posted. It's 14k so I won't blame you if you don't read it. </em><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You must have noticed my lack of tags. But I don't want to spoil you too much with them.  
> This is my first work in the Sherlock fandom. Though not my first work. Any mistakes are my fault.

It was brilliant. 

Finally a respectable counterparty with enough imagination and care for detail. Though not a genius like him, at least he used his brain better than the average. It was a minimalist design for crime, just the type that could make his brain work at full speed to find what exactly what was out of place. All the victims were on vacation and when they never came back, the investigation would take place in the countries they "traveled" to. It never occurred to the police they might have been murdered in England. 

The killer worked on migration, so it was easy for him to introduce the information of the victim to the records, at the other end he would have another party helping him with the same when the plane arrived. Even though the victim never boarded. The killer, James Patterson, would drug the victims in the airport and took them somewhere empty. Where he would kill his victims and behead them. Cutting of their hands and extracting their stomach to later burn these three to ashes. He would mutilated the rest of the body and then drop them all over the city's garbage bins. Ensuring that way to not recognise the body. Or the fact that there was a body at all. 

He thought while the concept of burning the three parts was smart, the mutilating was not. Once you had those 3 out of the way, there was no way they could identify the body and it was simpler to just burry the corpse somewhere instead of going through the trouble of mutilation and extermination. Which was his mistake. He would take the same route to drop the parts. And one of the neighbours noticed, afraid and curious of what he might found, he realised it was a knee bone what Patterson had dropped. The neighbour, Doctor Hart, contacted Sherlock about it and was intrigued enough to accept the case. Without any leads to as who the killer was and his victims, it became a background case. Two more people were killed but the third time Sherlock caught a glimpse of the killer in his famous routine and followed him. That night he fought against a man with a formidable force and machines. Had DI Clarkson not been in time he might not be laughing like a maniac at the moment in his armchair. 

"Did you see his face after I came out of th-", he came to a stopped after opening his eyes and realising he wasn't in Baker Street and that there was no armchair in front of his. 

John. 

His name stung deep in his mind. He often forgot John Watson wasn't living with him anymore. Which was strange because it had been 7 years and this time he was sure he would not see him again. The memory was still imprinted in his mind. 

John with his jaw set and face looking up in defiance. His military stand, both feet firmly on the ground and his hands were fists at his size. The flush on his face and neck and the flaring of his nostrils and the vein in his neck popping out and threatening to explode. 

"Have it your way then, Sherlock. Be aware I'll make it impossible for you to find me, let alone Mycroft. I see you or his minions near me, don't you think I won't rip your heads off no matter if I end up in jail". 

And with that he turned around and slammed the door. He knew it was his fault, he had plan it. His own name stung in his mind because of that. 

The lanky man braced his knees. The breeze was cold, colder than London's. A perfect reflection of his own soul. Just like the city, it was populated yet empty at times. Wrecked and dangerous but with its amazing joyuos places. Belfast had been a necessary change. Everytime he found a Loci that triggered the memory of his former blogger, he would get lost in thoughts. London had many of those, it was almost impossible for Sherlock to forget the stakes out, the jokes, the rows, the stupid things they did across the city. So he'd done what he had to in order to concentrate on The Work: ignore the distraction. So he packed his things and moved to the city with the highest criminal rate.  
Which was a good decision, he was less bored and the headmaster of the local university let him used all the facilities when those times came upon him. 

However he didn't feel like distracting himself with another experiment. Besides the installations were closed at 2 in the morning. He picked his violin from the coffee table and started plucking at the strings. He thought about his first meeting with Watson. 

"Afghanistan or Irak?" 

"I don't even know your name or where we're meeting". 

"Afternoon". 

And the night after that. 

"Are you okay?" 

"He was a bad cabbie".

"We can't giggle. It's a crime scene!". 

He remembered the cases they had together. With Wilkes, The Woman and Henry. Those were memorable, in fact. And of course, the sulking in between he made to distract himself. The more he thought, the deeper the memories went. The night in the pool and in the rooftop of St. Bart's staring at John on the pavement he couldn't help the tears from falling down. 

"Keep your eyes fixed on me"

"No one will convince me otherwise". 

"Goodbye, John". 

"Sherlock!"

And Magnussen. He was better than Moriarty. He had everyone dancing around his pinky. John himself didn't dare to do something courageous and stupid like in the pool. But Sherlock was having none. Sherlock's pressure point was John and Magnussen was well aware of this. It hurt him to his core watching John being unable to do anything for the person he loved, even if it wasn't him. So he did what he had to in order to free John and himself from their suffering: he shot him. He would have done it again to ensure John Watson's happiness. Mary and the baby died 2 years later in a car crash. John had been devastated, but it was a blessing to see that big smile on John's face everytime he was around little Claire. Even if it was for a short period of time. 

John came back to Baker Street, but he had changed. They never talked about it. Both of them preferred to fight it. Get it out with their fists and straddling one another until they were out of breath. That had been the first year. The fights stopped and John was going back to his standard self. More active in cases and as witty as ever. Sherlock made it his goal to make him smile once a day. Time passed and both of them started aging. He liked John's new hair colour. White and grey in some parts, along the dark blond hair of his. 

"You shouldn't dye it", he said one time during breakfast.

"How do you know I was planning to do it?", John looked at him incredulously. 

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It looks decent on you". 

"You must be kidding. I look like a grandpa!". 

"A smart and wise grandpa, indeed". 

The jumpers never made those two qualities justice. Both of them started to get some wrinkles around their eyes and forehead. But they still looked a year or two younger than they had. It was 4 years of blissful living between stake outs, explosions, deductions, whining and laughs. But Sherlock encountered a nemesis that would push him out of his boundaries. With the understanding and knowledge of Magnussen and the psychotic personality of Moriarty and a fascination for puzzles just like him. How he wished he had never taken that case. John wasn't sitting next to him because of that monster. The man who opened his eyes.

John lying on the floor, his eyes unfocused and unable to move. Murmuring non sense under his breath while Sherlock screamed at the phone for an ambulance and pressed on the wound. He remembered clapping his face with too much force for him to stay in the moment and to stop whatever it is he was imagining and just this time Sherlock thought that seeing John in agony was better than seeing him out of his body and trapped in his mind. 

_Trrrrrrrrr_

He quickly snap his eyes open and realised he broke a string of his violin when he jumped off the chair. 

_Trrrrrrrrr_

He would burn that ringbell. It was morning already and it took his eyes little time to adjust to the light. He let out a long breath. 

_Trrrrrrrr trrrrrrrr_

"Shut up! I'm coming!", he screamed. Whoever this person was, must definitely be in a hurry. He walked to the door and opened it dramatically. 

"What?", he asked acidly. 

It was a young man in his late 20's, white, brown hair, taller than him, backpack, tshirt, jeans and sneakers. 

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?", he asked in a northern accent. Interesting. Whatever he has must be important for him to travel all the way here. Sherlock was intrigued. 

"Come in". 

He walked to the kitchen and took one of the chairs on the dinning table and put it in front of his armchair. The young guy was standing like a statue near the doorway. Humans and their manners. This better be worth the breaking of his string. 

"Sit". 

The young man walked to the chair and sat down, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Not sure of what to say. 

"Tell me why you are here". Sherlock said a bit annoyed wanting to move to the interesting part as fast as possible. 

"My name is Carl and -", 

"You live in Manchester, you work in an office, though not business. A more social side. But you weren't born in Manchester. London, your mancunian accent is good but you don't sound like a native. Your last sentence just confirmed that. So you studied in Manchester and stayed there, likely. You came here afoot, tells me you don't have enough money. A normal person in a big and dangerous city like this is more likely to take a cab. Your eyes are red, skin dehydrated and it seems you've lost weight. A lost. Someone close to you. I recognise the signs well. Now tell me what I really really want to hear". 

_"Sherlock",_ he heard the warning voice of John in his head. 

Carl looked at him with a blank expression. Confused and with his mouth gaping. 

"Yes, erm, right", he stumbled for words. "You were Mrs. Hudson last tenant, am I right?" 

Sherlock's mind stopped. He knew what had happened at that moment. There was no way a man would pop out of the blue asking such question without a reason. 

"Yes", he said slowly while his brain went through the possibilities and medical record of his former landlady. "How did she...", Sherlock found himself struggling for words. 

"Heart attack. Last month", Carl's voice was a whisper.

Sherlock tried to school his expression. His jaw was set and a dark shadow loomed his expression. 

"If that is everything, you might leave". Sherlock was already standing but Carl stopped him. 

"I didn't come here for that", he turned around and opened his backpack. "Mrs. Hudson, left me everything and I was looking through the building and found this in the upper room under a hollow floorboard", he revealed a brown leather box. It was old and discolored and had scratches around it. "Thought you might have been looking for this. It has your name on. It seemed rather important". 

Carl pushed it in his right hand. Sherlock looked down at his hand and on the top of the lid carved with a knife was written: 

"J.H.W to S. H".

Sherlock's throat tightened. He had avoided everything that was related to John for years because he was afraid he would break the promise of not looking for John. His heart rate accelerated and he could hear the rush of his blood through his system. He walked with the box in his hands to the bedroom and put it on the bed. He grabbed his dressing gown and wrapped himself in it. Took the box and came back to the living room to Carl still sitting in the chair. 

"Nothing else?", he asked. 

"No. Just that", Carl replied. 

"Goodbye", he said abruptly. The look of confusion came back to Carl's face but he stood and showed himself outside. Saying his goodbyes at the door which Sherlock ignored. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock went to the spare room and took a spade. With strong and decisive steps he went downstairs to the little backyard of the building and started digging a hole. He would prevent himself from opening that box, because deep down, he knew that whatever was in there was enough to sent him hunting for John until he died. 

With a last glance at the hole, he picked the box from the dirt, felt the smooth surface under his fingertips and traced John's initials with his thumb. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to slide his fingers lower to the lock and simply open it. He already had some ideas on what the password must be. With a shake of his head, he shove the thoughts aside and put the box in the hole and burried it.


	2. Chapter 2

All his focus was on the violin and the notes in front of him. Words always came bad to him. They easily enamoured people and broke their hearts once the truth came out. But music, on the other side, could not lie. Because he had to feel in order to compose. Pretending would not do. It had to be in his very bones, running in his veins, conquering his mind and overflowing him that they would simply escape through his fingertips. It was a process: the mind subconsciously making the music while his fingers tested it on the strings. Looking for that perfect tone, vibratto and pizzicatto. He tried to grasp and reached but it was like trying to hold water in his hand. And he hated it so much. Hated to not get them right at the first time, that he would try again and again and again until he found it. Just. Right. Because this wasn't for him, but for the woman that managed to changed his point of view about family. 

_Owh, Mrs. Hudson._

Was his last thought as his body fell to the floor. 

\-----------------------

His entire body felt as if he had fallen down from a 5th floor. He couldn't feel his fingers and his legs didn't move an inch, no matter how much his brain repeated the command. 

His eyes opened and was temporary blinded by the sunlight which was caressing his pale skin. After blinking several times his eyes registered the clear sky above his head and the bird flying above him in circles. From the distance he couldn't identify what sort of bird it was, so he set the thought aside, leaned on his elbows and looked around. The empty land was adorned by high grass and some trees at a certain distance. His eyes were familiar with the landscape after so many years. Closing his eyes, he thought about the last time he was there. He'd been 7 years and about to go abroad. Laying flat on the ground looking at the sky. Redbeard, energized for a 9 year old, was running circles around him and sniffing on the ground and the tiny body. All the while moving his tail at all directions. 

"What do you think about the sky?", he'd asked Redbeard. "Mummy says people can go to space and look all sorts of things". He looked at his dog expectantly, waiting for an answer. "We can go if you want to. Even though I don't think it'll be interesting. The sun does the same. So does the moon and stars. Maybe if they exploded once in a while..." 

Redbeard came to lie next to him. Showing his belly for Sherlock to scratch, which he complied. 

"I don't want to leave you", he said as he snuggled close to the dog and wrapped his tiny form around the big dog. 

Sherlock didn't realise a tear was coming down his face when a voice snapped him from his memory. 

"Owh, you are pathetic, Sherlock". 

Sherlock sat on the ground immediately looking around for the voice as his heartrate increased. 

"Crying over a dog. What with the "high-functioning sociopath"?" Moriarty sneered and threw a teddybear at him which landed on his face. "Have you become a "high-functioning teddy bear"?" 

Sherlock took the bear and threw it far away as he watched the figure arise from between the high grass from his left. The man had a mischievous grin and continued: "Because that would make more sense, dear". 

He frowned in confusion for less than a second before schooling his features to a neutral expression. 

"Long time no see, Jim", he managed to get out.

Jim Moriarty put on a pair of sunglasses he took from his breast pocket and looked around him. Uninterested. 

"You know, I thought you'll die doing something incredibly stupid like proving your intellect or something entirely heroic", Sherlock cocked his head at his confession in confusion. "But you starved yourself to death. 4 days without sleeping or consuming any water or solid food. And that's not it. You are in a ridiculously calm place and accepting it. What sentiment does to people". Moriarty sighed dramatically. "Moran was right, you were a waste". 

"Well, you also were. Shooting yourself in the head and your puppy resurrecting as yourself", Sherlock retorded back. "I expected a more complex puzzle".

"You're missing the big picture, Sherlock", Moriarty sang. 

"I'm not missing anything". 

"You're right. You're the detective", he continued calmly. "By the way, how does it feel to be away from your Doctor?", his voice dripped with sarcasm. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his jaw was set and started plucking the weed under his hands. 

"Work is not as fun when there's no one around to show for, is it?", Moriarty stood up and started walking around Sherlock who was still sitting. "Tell me", he paused as his eyes followed the flight of the bird above their heads. "what do you miss more? His laughs or his body? I must admit he was attractive," a half smile adorned his face, his expression lost in thought. "So skinny when he left you, though. Shame you never made it to bed. They call him "Three Continents Watson". Never wondered what he did to earn such a name among his peers?". 

"Stop", Sherlock hissed. 

"Mary must have been very impressed by his abilities", he resumed walking around Sherlock. "You know, ex- soldier, the PTSD and the obsession with you. Their sex life must have been amazing for her to have stayed. But that was your fault for jumping off the building", As soon as the words came out of his mouth he stopped. "No, wait. That was my fault", Sherlock watched as he shrugged and said a silent "oops". 

"Is there a purpose for you interrupting my apparent death?", Sherlock snapped. 

"Sherlock you're so stupid", he ignored him. "You choose death because you don't trust yourself in controlling your impulses and go look for Johnnyboy". 

Sherlock stands abruptly and watches Moriarty carefully. Who is grinning wide and proud. 

"Matter over mind. I always knew you were ordinary. Ordinary Sherlock. My name is Ordinary Holmes, I'm the world's only consulting detective. How's that sou---". 

Sherlock punched him straight on his nose. Jim fell back and Sherlock followed, grabbing him by his suit jacket with one hand and landing one punch after another on his face. The sunglasses were on the ground by the first impact but a glass piece managed to cut Jim's cheeks and was bleeding through the wound.  
"Keep going, Sherlock", he said coughing. "You are so weak". 

At his words, rage travelled through Sherlock's body and grabbed Jim with both his hands and started to shake him against the ground. 

"DO. NOT. TALK. ABOUT. HIM", he said slamming Jim against the ground between each words. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Sherlock was about to deliver a blow to Jim's head with his elbow when the smaller man turned them around and was pinning Sherlock with his body and had him on the ground by his hair. With all his force, Jim punched him on his chest and ribs, taking the breath out of the taller man. 

"Why?", Jim asked in a loud voice. "It almost cost his life because of you. Is that it?". Jim slapped him on the face. Hard. Sherlock's eyes were watery and he started to simply stop fighting. The truth behind those words were enough to take his force away. 

"You're not worth it. Not even in your line of work. And it was simple", he striked yet another slap. "But you couldn't do it under 5 seconds". Jim made his hand a fist which landed on his nose. Breaking it cleanly. 

"You are slow", he screamed. "And human. You need attention and care. Now both of them are gone. She is gone, Sherlock. Nothing you can do there".

Jim brought his hand to touch the blood running down Sherlock's face and smeared it across his cheeks and eyelids. Sherlock closed his eyes and hold his breath. Moriarty's fingertips were cold but his touch was delicate almost tender. The man above lift his hand to Sherlock's eyesight. 

"Open your eyes", he hissed. Sherlock didn't comply. At this Moriarty took his face in his other hand, letting go Sherlock's hair violently and whispered. "I want you to see, Sherlock". 

Sherlock exhaled and opened his eyes. Red. Everything was red. Moriarty's fingers, face and hair. He felt sticky with the thick liquid himself. Then he heard the shot of a gun and Moriarty's blood spatting on his face while his body fell on him. The bird he saw was a crow, coming full speed at him. He heard the crow's cry and braced himself to be attacked by the creature, and just when it showed his claws inches from Sherlock's face, his eyes snapped open and was immediately blinded by the bright lights of the hospital. 

There were noises. People barking orders and cold hands pinning him down. He recognised the figure at one corner leaning on an umbrella and then it was blisfully blank.  
\------------------------------

After coming out of the hospital, Sherlock accepted every case. Didn't matter if it was a 3. He would solve it just to have 1 minute off his own thoughts. The need was so strong he started to go to a dance studio, took drawing lessons and crashed into a soap opera at the theatre as one of the main actors. And that's not counting he started to go to casinos and to gamble. And the fact he ended up in a cell for a night for walking naked on the streets when he bet all his clothes on a game. That night he was forced to face his fears in the cold cell. His mind wandered everytime to the box and the secrets it held. 

Now, looking at the stairs to his flat he remembered the words Mycroft's said that morning when he came to pick him from the police station. 

"You're getting out of control, little brother. At this rate Mummy will want you in an asylum". 

The nightmare he had at the hospital was still fresh in his mind. Before meeting John, his old persona would have agreed with Jim Moriarty. Sentiment, desire and regret was slowly rotting his mind and bahauviour, and he recognised part of the problem was his. First of all, he'd let the feelings grow slowly since the night John shot the cabbie. Sure, that time he'd seen it as an heroic act to save his life. But the more time they spent together, the more Sherlock questioned the nature of their acquaintance based on John's behaviour towards him. Sherlock remembered the story about a kid who planted some peas and the next morning there was a gigantic tree in his yard so tall it disappeared in the clouds. At first, he hadn't even acknowledge his feelings, they were just dry seeds. In the blink of an eye they were so many he couldn't get a hold on them much like the tree. He knew John had to love him. No question. But the way he would love a brother or one of his mates at the army. John had fight and kill for him. He also grieved and forgave him. Deep down, he knew John was a good man. The best, perhaps. And he already gave him everything he could. Either way, Sherlock was selfish and needed, demanded more of his friend. A contract of sorts for him to never go away and stay by his side until their days are forgotten. Sherlock was better when John was at his side. Which is why he had become to depent on his friend for so many things. And it only grew in the last four years they spent together. It was fine. His second mistake was sending John away after realising just that. 

Yes. Now he was getting out of control. Stupid Mycroft. He couldn't think properly, forgot to eat and sleep, there was no one to laugh with or to sulk to. He wasn't happy. John had changed him, and after 7 years without him, he didn't have anything together. Going back to his old persona was a 7 year failure. 

With long and decisive steps he went outside to the yard and started digging the ground with his bare hands like a dog. Dirt flew all directions and he kept digging as fast as he could until his fingers touched solid material and went faster. When he got the box out of the ground his brain worked at the speed of light trying to deduce the code: 2010. 

_Click._

His brain catalogued everything his eyes saw at first glance. Dog tags, two pictures, baby pink bow, memory stick, four leather notebooks, pack of cigarettes, two syringes. 

John. 

Sherlock sat on the dirt and simply stared into the box. All these expressed a side of John. And John had put them all inside the box. Stretching his hand he picked the dog tags and closed his hand tightly around it. Thinking that, if he held it tight enough he would wake up from this nightmare, and John would come back by his side. That If he held it tight enough, the letters arranged on the dog tags holding John's basic information would print on his skin and become a part of his DNA. He squeezed it In his hand and felt the sharp edges digging in his skin. He held on so tight it broke skin and as the warm blood ran down his palm he felt the warmness that John once brought to his life. With his other hand Sherlock took the pictures. Harry and John were cuddling on a couch, both asleep and in onesies. John couldn't be older than 7, his chubby cheeks, round nose, blond hair almost white, give him an almost cartoony look. Harry must have been around 10, taller and with slimmer features. Her long hair was the same colour as John's, making them look like twins from far away. They would have passed as twins if John had been taller. There was a certain tenderness in the way John held Harry in his arms. Her head under John's chin as his left hand carresed her hair while he held her tight against him with his right hand. But he noticed John was drooling on his sister's hair and a smiled crossed his face. He understood why John kept the picture around, he remembered the good days when they were little and his sister was healthy. Probably happy too. He still had the image of this Harry in his head and he had hoped the clock would turn back time. 

He picked the other picture. It was taken 2 years after they met, he remembered. It was after a successful case and they had crashed both on their respective armchairs amd giggled like teenagers. They hadn't noticed Lestrade standing at the door until they heard the snap of his camera phone. 

"I never thought I would see the great Sherlock Holmes laugh", Lestrade had replied mischievously. 

But it was cut in half. Sherlock was left out of the picture and he only had the half where John was. The hand around the dog tags squeezed with more force, wounding his hand even more. Oblivious to the blood running down his hand, he put the pictures aside, ignored the pink bow because he didn't have the strenght to think about John's daughter anymore. His fingers brushed agains the pack of cigarettes and syringes. The good soldier. And most importantly the best of friends. Always keeping him at arms lenght from harm. Even from himself, if it meant to. Now Sherlock was returning the favour. 

His fingers stopped at the rough surface of one of the notebooks. They were all the same style, used and thin. About 80 pages each. Curious he picked the first one and started to read. He read about some delicate cases they had solved together, interesting patients at the clinic and things that would normally not happen to normal people. Like fight a killer in a panda costume. Other times he wrote about his past and problems. But these were just a handful of pages. He read them all and when he finished, the last sunrays adorned the sky. When he looked back down, he realised he had held the dog tags the entire time. And the blood already dried on his skin. He was about to put everything inside when he spotted the beige envelope. 

_Sherlock Holmes_ , was written on a familiar handwriting. 

He quickly grabbed it and teared the old, tainted envelope open, unfolded the pages and started reading. 

_Sherlock,_

_I am sitting at the dinning table. You probably already knew that by the position my writing inclines or the dust you'll find on this letter, if you ever find it. But as I stare around the flat, my current life, I find it hard to just get up, walk down stairs, drive to Heathrow and leave England as I said. What I find the most difficult however, is to walk through our door and close it. I've done it many times, but this time there's no coming back._

_I keep going back in my mind to when it started to change. To where the "Come along, John" became "I don't want you around. You slow me down". Sleep went on vacation the first time you said those words. You made me wonder what I did wrong and I couldn't stop blaming myself for a reason I still am not aware of. Sherlock, I might have no idea what is in your head. And I might be wrong as I most of the times am. But I do not believe your excuse of being incompetent and imbecile and useless to your Work, that everything was a fake all along because the only reason you kept me all this time was because you were bored and needed an assistant. That I've grown old and am somehow worthless because of this new wound._

_I didn't mean anything I said yesterday. Do not believe those words. Rage took over me and the words simply came out. I was tired of you ignoring me all this time, you had me worried. And with Mortimer at our feet, I needed to get it out. Yes, I could live without you. Would I be happy? No. I wouldn't have been shot had I not accepted living with you. But I wouldn't have met the good man you are, Sherlock. Believe me when I say I wouldn't change it for the world. You helped me in more ways than you can even fathom. I would never leave your side without a good reason. And will always be there as long as you want me to. But then again, words never came good to us._

_As I said, I do not know what happens in your head. And we are both rubbish at these sort of things. Me writing this is enough prove of how scared I am of your reaction. And how I might react to it. Even though we specialize at solving problems, we are bad at solving ours. It's okay to be afraid sometimes. Which I think all this is about. But the actions you have taken under its influence will not change my mind about you._

_I'm going, not because I want to. But because I am not sure. After 10 years of friendship, I must have the confidence to say that I know you. But you were always unpredictable. When I thought I had you figured out, you would make something entirely irrational. Lucky for me, somethings never changed. Believe it or not, your loyalty is one of them. Once I earned it, I never doubted you. And when your methods were questionable to the ordinary eyes, I tried to understand and came to agree with you most of the times. But now, what should I believe? What you asked of me? Or your past actions? There is a list I wrote of them in one of my notebooks. Have you really changed? Or have I been perceiving your actions wrong all this time? I hope you don't really plan to throw whatever we have to oblivion. I said that you were a bastard for jumping off a building in front of my eyes. But I forgot you had your reasons. Valid reasons. Sherlock, I am forever grateful for what you did. However, the time I spend with you is more important than risking my life. And it's more important when I spend time with you risking my life for you. Remember that. Now, I can't stop thinking that I am jumping off the building instead of you._

_If you find this box, you've probably been messing in the room upstairs. Which is a sign you care at least slightly to go upstairs and check, open this box and go through all its content to read this letter. And that is enough for me. I would go to Spain and stay with an old friend near Bilbao. I'll stay there for six months, probably. There is this place I always wanted to visit. I'll be waiting every friday at 17.00 at the Dona Casilda Park for those months. If you come, we'll start over again or try to mend our situation. It's up to you Sherlock, whatever you choose, I'll accept. If you don't come, I am afraid this letter is my last good bye and I wholeheartedly wish you a great life._

_Yours, John._

Sherlock read the letter again and again until he had memorised every word. He had never doubted his friend's fierce loyalty to him, but the last days they were together told him another story. Shaking his head, Sherlock realised the mistake he had made and that 10 years together was enough years for his former blogger to understand what was happening under his skin and the demons in his head. Without the need of expressing himself with voice. Because as John explicitly wrote, they were both rubbish at communicating with each other in words. They never really needed words unless it was truly necessary. What he didn't expect however, was the weight on his shoulders being lifted by his words and the way John reassured him that it was okay. John was dissapointed but not mad. Where was he now? 

_Where are you, John?_

Sherlock felt the sudden urge to grab his things and go back to London. To feel close to John again even though he wasn't there. To go back to Baker Street and climb the 17 stairs to their old apartment and sit in his old armchair and imagine John in front of him. To feel the ghost of his former friend walking around the kitchen and complaining about the liver in the microwave or the head in the fridge. 

3 hours later, he was in a plane to London. His _real_ home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to listen to Zigeunerweisen while you read this chapter, I totally recommend you to listen to Jascha Heifetz playing it. Here's the link:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jWmdzOxD9s
> 
> Or if you want to listen the recording of Sarasate's himself, the link is this one:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABm7nMVyNh4

Sherlock steps were long and furious as he crossed the field. The grip on his case was so strong his knuckles were white. He had memorized where he was going from the manila folder Mycroft had given him after he woke up in the hospital. It was no surprise he found it so quickly. 

Standing in front of the gravestone, Sherlock looked at it intensively without letting go of his violin case. 

_Martha Hudson_

_1938- 2027_

The speed his heart was beating was fast enough to beat a plane in a race in the blink of an eye. All this rush of blood demanded his body to do something. Jump, walk, run, punch, scream, cry, laugh and talk. Whatever. All he wanted was to get rid off those feelings that invaded his mind and wouldn't let him think properly. Setting the case down on the floor and opening it, he took out his only salvation. Normally, he would handle it with care, but today he needed to get all this things out as quickly as possible before punching the gravestone until he was sure all the 27 bones in his hand and wrist were broken. Tuning it quickly he began with something familiar and appropriate for his state of mind. Sarasatre's Zigeunerweisen. The imposing and virtuous introduction of the piece reassured the man of the importance of his thoughts. Identifying them quickly and pinning them down. 

_Physical health: Decent. Remember to hydrate_

_Mental health: In danger. Mind Palace with issues. Fix._

He was walking in the very streets of London. Felt the cold wind against his face and dancing through his hair as he spotted all the locations and buildings he stored information in. Checking every room as he passed and declared them free of danger. Arriving at the Roland Kerr Further Education College he realized why they were issues. Broken windows, weed growing everywhere, plants eating the walls, the graffiti and the forced door gave the impression it was abandoned. Usually he would clean the place of the information he hadn't use for a long period of time. But he never had the strength to delete what was still in the building. Moriarty made him aware of his own heart the night at the pool when he saw John wrapped in Semtex. His pressure points, as Magnussen would say, were to that day problems of his past with no influence to his future. Therefore he deemed them not worthy of a place in the streets that build his journey. Moriarty proved him wrong and decided to gave them a place in his mental map of London. He'd chosen that specific location because it was that night when John shot the cabbie that Sherlock truly noticed him and was grateful of his company. But one room expanded to a floor, then a building and later the entire area of the college. There was a time he convinced himself he was above emotion, he'd grown out of it and would never fall for it again. But John came and humanized him. After his humanization, he did nothing but embrace these "flaws" in his design while trying to keep them away from the world in order to keep them safe. It had work for a time. But Magnussen managed to break the walls. The first year after John escaped from London, the subjects of his emotions in these rooms escaped. Tearing the rooms, halls and everything at their pace apart with the strength they gained in the lapse of a few months. He let them go, free to do whatever they pleased as long as they let his mind alone. Ever since the mayhem in these buildings took place, Sherlock hadn't set a foot in them. As he entered the structure, the smell of mold invaded his nostrils, the echo of his footsteps came to his ears along the crack of the floorboards every time he took a step. Water was leaking from the roof and rats made their way through the dirty corridors. Analyzing the state of the building, Sherlock was afraid it would collapse on him.

As Sherlock heard the lugubrious lento of the music, he took a moment to walk through the doors and reconcile with his old emotions that subconsciously hunted him. Some of the doors were opened and others broken. The room containing Claire's information was so dark and cold that made the detective shiver. It was unrecognizable. The soft pinks of the walls were invaded by mold and sprayed yellow paint. It said: _Sherlock Holmes killed me._ He knew the words weren't true. But guilt covered his innocence. Guilt because had he not been in need of a flatmate and assistant, John wouldn't have been involved with him. And therefore never met Mary. He visited the other empty rooms. Mary's, the ones containing his story as a junkie and visited all of John's. He also paid a quick visit to Lestrade's which were still in a good state and reviewed when they first met next to London's bridge when he had found him high and about to commit suicide. As well as the time after that and the cases he shared with him. He was amazed to realize after the mayhem, most of the rooms not related to John were still intact. Redbeard, The hound of Baskerville, Jim Moriarty, The Woman and Magnussen. Mycroft's room was still in the same state as last time, but he had not seen the man in it. 

When he was in front of Mrs. Hudson's door, it was just in time for the song's melancholic tune. This time in a slower tempo than the rest of the song. Aware of his fingers moving once again on the neck of his instrument, he put all his grieve at the tip of his fingers and available for his companion. With his eyes closed, he shut his thoughts for a minute and let himself be embraced by sensations. The smell of Mrs. Hudson's pie, the sound of her voice talking to him in their occasional poker play, her tender yet slightly callous hands on his skin tending an injury. Finishing the last note of the section, he dared to open his eyes. Mrs. Hudson was sitting on her chair staring at him as if he had given her the sky.

"Owh, Sherlock", she said with the admiration only a mother could have. Carefully, she stood up and walked towards him. Her eyes were at the edge of tears but her smile was wide enough to create wrinkles around her eyes. Placing her left hand to his cheeks, she looked at him right in the eye and Sherlock felt exposed and knew everything he was showing, the woman in front of him would empathize. Sherlock brought his right shoulder down, lifted his chin off the chin rest and lowered the bow in his left hand. Martha Hudson held his left wrist between her fingers and then her lips kissed the base of his neck. His left hand found its way to Mrs. Hudson's waist while both her arms wrapped tightly around him and Sherlock hugged her back with both arms this time and with such force they might become one body. Her scent. A mix of cinnamon, apples, black tea and the smell of cigarettes. It felt like home. 

Mrs. Hudson unwrapped herself from Sherlock's limbs and stared with the decision only a woman with a goal could have. "Live and let live, Sherlock", she said as she stepped back. "That's my motto". 

And for the first time, Sherlock did exactly as Mrs. Hudson said. Because the only way he would keep living was if he stripped bare of his guilt and mistakes. Glancing at Mrs. Hudson one last time, he put the violin under his chin and the bow in place and started the extremely rapid pace of Zigeunerweisen's last section. Playing the long spicatto runs, double stops and left hand pizzicatos perfectly with such concentration and passion he was oblivious of the walls falling and smashing against the ground, the shattering of the windows and the horrific sound of metal against metal. Sherlock's face was red and sweating. He finished the piece and played yet another fast composition until the entire installation was nothing more than ruins and his fingers were bleeding. Sherlock's hands were numb and let go of the bow which fell to the floor. Breathing heavily, he looked around and saw the ruins of what was once the virtual place of his emotions. Covered in a cloud of dust. What he did in order to gain his own redemption. 

"John, please", he said breathlessly. But silence only replied. Then, 

"Always, Sherlock", said John's voice in his mind 

He quickly opened his eyes and realized he was still in front of Mrs. Hudson's grave. The sun was coming down and the air grew cold. After wiping the blood away he put the violin in the case and closed it. Then sat down with his back against the gravestone. He wasn't sure why, but all he knew was that he had to get it out of his chest. To grab the blade that pierced his heart and let it bleed freely in the form of words. 

"You told John that first time I could do with someone like him around me. I always underestimated your intuition", a sad smile crossed Sherlock's face. "Apparently I always rub things off. I should have talked things with John through, right? Would surely be somewhere else now. I can hear you telling me: "You are so daft, Sherlock" or something of the sort". 

After a long pause, staring at the void and lost in his thoughts he continued: "I just destroyed a Loci. It was for the best. That place held too many emotions. Emotions that might drown me. I needed to let go. How did you live with regret, Martha? Did you ever regret marrying, drugs and your dancing? Anything? Doesn't it eat you alive? Wants to take your very soul to oblivion?", he spat the questions. 

"John forgave me in that letter", he said softly and started to pluck the weed under his fingers. "He is not mad. Gave me an ultimatum. But that was 7 years ago. How do I know he still thinks the same of me? You were better at these things Mrs. Hudson. I wish I had that brain of yours for a minute". He let a long breath out. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson for all the things I did and the troubles I caused you. I should have been better for you. You were a marvelous woman. My mother. not my housekeeper. And I want you to be by my side now, but you can't. You are gone. Your loss made me realize I do not want to talk to John's gravestone as I am doing with you. His letter gives me hope that somehow I can still fix this and that it's not too late. Where is he? Where might he be? He left me this box and this address but surely he must have moved. Where should I begin? Would he listen to me even once I found him? What should I say? This is so difficult. And my fault. Have John been here he would probably started to record all I am letting out. Do you think he is still the same? Has his hair grow more grey? Does he have a tan now? Or a gut? Is he healthy? Are the wounds troubling him? Has he gone back to limping? Does he think of me as I think of him? I feel tempted to just ask Mycroft. But damn my pride".

These were his last words as he stared at the moon and his eyes drifted close, thinking that he will go to Baker Street tomorrow first thing in the morning. 

\-----------------------

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock heard from afar. Then a hand was slightly shaking him. 

"Mr. Holmes, are you alright?", said the same voice. 

He slowly processed the words and mumbled something. 

"Owh, Sherlock. Don't tell me you used", at the new voice, Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked as the light invaded his vision. And spotted the former DI standing next to Carl. "You slept here?" 

"Obvious", he replied with a rough voice. 

"Sherlock, do not dare to tell me you used in front of Mrs. Hudson's grave", the voice of Lestrade's was threatening and sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. But he was not to bent. He stood up in front of both men and said with annoyance: 

"Of course not, Lestrade. I do respect the dead". 

At this, Lestrade rolled his eyes. But smiled anyways. Happy to see the bastard man he considered his friend. "Says the man that beats corpses", this made Sherlock chuckled and Lestrade embraced him all of a sudden. He remembered a similar moment years ago. This time however, Sherlock hugged the man in return. 

Lestrade hadn't change that much. His hair was more grey than before and the inevitable wrinkles adorned his face and the typical bags under his eyes, though now more evident, were still there. The little gut however was a new addition. "You're out of shape, Lestrade", he noted. As he let go of the embrace. "Sitting behind a desk and barking orders isn't improving your health". 

"Well, Sherlock, Supts don't get to do much leg work", he said. Sherlock hummed. 

"Morning, Carl. I see you brought the paper", he said to the young man. 

"Morning", replied Carl. "I come every week here to leave flowers and read her some news before I have to go back. She liked it", he said waving at the flowers in his hand. "What were you doing here exactly?", asked Carl curiously. 

"Just came by to say good bye. Didn't have the opportunity to do properly". 

"And you fell asleep", stated Lestrade amused. 

"Yes, apparently", Sherlock answered awkwardly. 

"What brought you here?, anyways? I thought you left London once and for all", Lestrade asked in concerned. 

"Mrs. Hudson's death. You're still slow after 20 years working with me".

"Ahum", Greg replied skeptically. "I was expecting you. Though not so quickly". 

"Expecting me?", asked Sherlock confused.

"Yes," said Carl. "You're on the headline again, Mr. Holmes". 

Carl gave Sherlock the newspaper in his hand.

"Sherlock, please", he corrected before taking the newspaper.

 _London's sleuth is back_ , he read as he unfolded the paper. Under it was a giant photo of him walking with his briefcase behind and a look of distress. 

"Stupid media", he muttered. "Speculations. How do they suppose I will be back here living and solving cases? They're deductions skills are so low a pig could do a better work". 

"That means you're not going back to work?", asked Lestrade. 

"Not now. I have other business to attend now", he said picking his violin case. 

"Related to the box?", asked Carl. 

"What box?", asked Lestrade suddenly intrigued. "Are you helping him now?" 

Sherlock made a face as Carl said "No".

Then it strucked Sherlock. "How do you know each other if you", he pointed at Carl and stopped all of a sudden. His mouth a little open in realisation as the deductions ran through his mind. "Right". 

"What?", asked Lestrade feeling lost. 

"I was about to ask how you know each other given that Carl spent most of his adult life in Manchester. Then I remembered your son also went to Manchester and since I never saw Carl in the flat, and you and Mrs. Hudson weren't really familiar with each other- it was more likely you got to know Carl through your son. And the fact that the both of you came together and the newspapers had Graham's name on it confirmed that. Sent Ethan my regards, would you?"

Greg sighed in disbelief. "You deduce all of this and remember details about my son's life but you still get my first name wrong after 20 years". 

"I can see why the police hated to work with him. But that was good", said Carl. 

"You have no idea", Lestrade replied and rocked on the balls of his heel back and forth. "Look, Sherlock. As much as I would like to go down a pub, have a proper breakfast and catch up- you don't like that and I have to work. There's this new case, came yesterday and has quite rare features. Thought you might like to see. Involving certain parties and info we would like keep from the press". 

"Scotland Yard has been lost without me, I see", replied Sherlock with a smirk. 

Lestrade looked daggers at him, irritated by his attitude. "We've managed without you and we've had some help". 

"Help? What help? I was away". 

"Sherlock", said Lestrade in a soft voice. "I need your help. You know how my team gets around children's murders. It'll take more time to solve".

 _"Say no"_ , said his rational part of his brain. _"You're here to find information about John's whereabouts. Go to Baker Street."_

"Tell me", the words slipped from his mouth. 

"Yesterday night a kid was found brutally murdered near Southwark Bridge with a silk ribbon around his wrist. The second kid this month. We are at a black here".

Sherlock started walking towards the exit of the cemetery leaving Greg and Carl behind.

"Is that a no?", Lestrade called after him.

"I'll see what I can do".

 

\-------------------------------

The following morning, he was kicked out of New Scotland Yard because Lestrade noticed he was about to collapse. The chilly air embraced his form and his exhauted body made its way to the sidewalk to catch a cab to Baker Street.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock turned back and saw a man in his 30's running down the stairs, when he was in front of him he continued. "You are the man I need. I need your help. The police is at a lost and I am desperate".

"What is it that you need?", asked a bored Sherlock.

Shaking, the man started his story: "I am a successful art dealer and culture lover. And have a soft spot for classical music and went to see the London's Philharmonic performance last Saturday. My wife would normally come with me, but that day she was suffering from migraine and I went alone. When I came back, she was gone and left a note. It is now in the hands of the police but I took a picture", the man fished his phone out of his pocket and showed Sherlock the note.

_"Josiah, I leave you. You don't do anything at home. Nothing you do is fine. I am tired of living with you and your eccentricities. Everything you talk about is work and there is no time for us. You can't even fuck me like I need to. What am I supposed to do? This was the worst decision I took and I regret it"._

Sherlock didn't finish the letter and handed back the phone.

"She clearly left you", Sherlock said with a bored expression. "Nothing I can really do about that. Evening".

Sherlock turned and started to walk away but the man wouldn't let go. Following his steps, the man came to walk next to Sherlock and continued.

"I know that. But she disappeared. Her parents don't know where she is, her phone was found in the garbage, her credit card hasn't been used and I am sure she didn't have money apart from her card. I gave her money. In fact, there's not even a trace where the both of them might be".

Sherlock was getting tired of the conversation. He had his own person to look and wasn't about to open a case of someone missing until he himself had found John.

His legs stopped moving.

"Both?", he asked to the man.

"Yes, she left with my neighbor Doctor Ray Ernest. Professor at the UCL".

"How do you know she left with him?", he asked suddenly intrigued.

"I knew they were having an affair. Next day I stopped by his house and it was empty. The police contacted his family, they don't know. And hasn't gone to work for a week now. Please, Mr. Holmes. You must help me", pleaded the man.

Sherlock deduced the man and took a moment to decide if he wanted to pursuit the end of the case. 

"Would you mind if I read the letter again? I think I missed something".The man gave Sherlock the phone and after a minute, he was done."I take your case. I'll be in contact".

With that Sherlock walked away. 

 ----------------------

It was 9PM and Sherlock was hiding in the shadows looking at the house across the street, impatiently for the man to go out once and for all. The figure of Josiah Amberley in front of the mirror adjusting his tie was visible. He knew the man would go out to a party that night when he checked the man's agenda on his phone under the excuse of reading the letter. It was the perfect moment to break into the house and prove his suspicious. 

The house was big and well secured. Making his entrance from doors and windows impossible. Apart from the cameras. A slightly difficult challenge but not one he couldn't pass. The house itself was in a bad state. The yard was full of leaves and some parts of the house were being remodeled due to bad state. The roof was being changed, and as Sherlock observed the workers didn't finish their task that day. When Josiah entered his car and left his house, Sherlock immediately climbed over the tall, old brick wall and entered the yard. 

As soon as his feet touched ground, he heard the unmistakable sound of a dog barking. 

_Shit._

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat before pumping full speed and making him feel hot. He was still as a statue as his mind ran a thousand kilometers per second looking for the best course of action. The memories of Dartmoort came to him and all he thought about was to run. Another bark and Sherlock was running to the house. 

Every time his feet touched the ground, it sent a vibration to his body. It was all he felt at that moment. His eyes set in the front to the tree he was about to climb. And as the vibration traveled through his body, it gave him the strength to push himself to run faster. The dogs were, at that point, 7 meters behind him and were slowly gaining advantage. Every time closer and closer to their victim. It would only take a couple of seconds and a jump to catch him, stop him and bring him down. One dog was about to jump and grab the tail of his coat but landed on the ground. 

Sherlock managed to jump and grab an arm of tree and climbed. When he was sitting on the arm and save, he looked down to the four furious Rottweilers barking at him and jumping. Sherlock gave them a satisfied smiled and bowed. 

"My pleasure, gents", he said to the dogs and started laughing like a maniac before climbing the tree further. The tree was just next to the house and was simple enough to jump from the tree to the house landing on a balcony of the third floor. He then climbed through a pipe to rooftop, ignoring the faint pain on his lower back. Once on the roof, he walked to the open section of it and let himself in. It was dark and he could barely see anything from 5 meters. After walking in the dark for some minutes and almost falling with materials the builders left behind, he found a ladder to the fourth floor, which he climbed down. He investigated room by room, turning the lights on as he went. Looking for what he thought must be there. But as far as he managed, there was nothing on the fourth floor. He did the same on the third floor. There was only one room left to search in the second floor, the master bedroom. Sherlock approached the door and opened it. But as soon as he did, he was tackled from behind to the floor, his head smashed against the hard wood and a heavy body pinned him down. One big hand held his wrists while the other grabbed him by his hair, holding his head in place. His legs were tangled to Sherlock's, throwing all the possibilities for him to get up through the window. Still in shock, he was unable to fight.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here, you twat?", said the deep voice. Sherlock's body went immediately stiff and then relaxed when he identified the voice. Turning his head a little, he recognized the grey glasses. 

"Language, Barker. I didn't expect it to be so harsh with burglars". 

Sherlock felt the grip on his wrists and hair loosened. Then the man was standing and laughing at the same time. He helped Sherlock up the floor and was still smiling when they were finally facing each other. 

"Sherlock Holmes".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since I read The adventure of the retired colourman I was intrigued by Mr. Barker. So I had to include him in the story because I really want to see him someday in the show. I expect it to be a glorious moment and if Moftiss decide to include him I have total confidence it will be epic.  
> As of Sherlock's mind palace, we had a proper glance at it in HLV which was the Roland Kerr Further Education College and the empty house where they found the woman in pink. Given that Sherlock's a genius and has a lot of information in his head, I thought his mind palace should be bigger and contain more places. (I am at uni and have been using the memory palace and other methods to remember all the stuff I need to know for 5 years and I have a bunch of places and journeys. So Sherlock must have more than I do). Hence why I choose London as his, and would explain the reason he knows London like the back of his hand. (Apart that he clearly needs it for the work, of course).  
> I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing it. The story is almost done, I've written 17 chapters but I am still brainstorming to write the ending. If you want to brainstorm with me, feel free to let me know.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.  
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. Even more when the comments are constructive criticism.


	4. Chapter 4

The room was ghost-quiet as the two men scrutinized each other with eagle eyes. Dissecting every little thing that was of importance in order to have a proper glance at their background story and deduce their intentions. Sherlock's eyes traveled Barker's body from head to toes. Analyzing the man's long straight hair carefully swept back, full brown beard cut with precision, black shirt hugging his broad and muscled form tightly, the impossibly long jeans around his legs, black boots and the gray tinted glasses. After he was done with his deductions, he looked up at Barker's face with a smug smile. One the man in front of him was also wearing. 

 

"I see you are working with the police, now", Sherlock broke the silence. 

 

Barker shrugged. 

 

"Well, they are always at a lost", he said casually. "And they have been consulting me more often since you went on vacation. Thank you for that. Back to this case, fairly simple this one, don't you think?"

 

"Transparent. Barely a 3", he said as he walked to the exit door. then stopped and looked behind to Barker. "And I've come to a conclusion".

 

"So have I. Mind sharing?"

 

"What if we review the situation first?", said Sherlock as he turned around and made his way down the corridor. "Woman disappears with a presumptuous lover", he starts.

 

"However, this lover is clearly gay", Barker interrupted him.

 

"Exactly. I met him some years ago. Was conducting some research on porous liquids, smart man. Clearly closeted homosexual. Had certain revulsion to women in general. Now a woman's lover and he disappears with her. This is not a coincidence".

 

"No credit card usage since the day of their disappearance, cctv footage, mobile tracking. Gone in the city themselves". 

 

"If what Josiah told us about his wife finances are true- she doesn't work and receives the money from him. Then she at least must have taken some money from either her card or their savings. But she didn't".

 

"Neither did Doctor Ernest".

 

"And nobody goes somewhere without money. Especially such a rich brit woman".

 

"They must have stayed here".

 

They arrived at the kitchen. Sherlock sat down and Barker immediately went to the computer left on the counter and started typing. 

 

"What about the night they disappeared?", asked Sherlock. 

 

"Husband went to theater. Wife stayed behind. However," he passed the laptop to Sherlock, "nobody went out. Only the Doctor came in at 1900 and until the next day Josiah comes out, clearly distressed. Ernest never comes out". 

 

"Not bad", Sherlock said. 

 

"Is that the closest you can get to complimenting?", he arched a brow. 

 

"This was child's play", replied Sherlock as he stood up and brought a bottle of scotch.

 

"There's only one question left", remarked Barker as Sherlock poured himself a glass. He smelled the liquid and analyzed its texture. 

 

"Indeed. One we should ask the man himself", and drank with eagerness. Barker watched him closely and realised how much his companion was in need of a drink. Sherlock noticed the curious look Barker was giving. Barker just opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock cut him off to take the lead of the conversation. 

 

"How is Clarice?"

 

"Fine", he said cautiously. "As fine as any wife can be with her husband breaking into some rich arse's place for fun". 

 

"When did you come to London? Birmingham was getting boring?" Sherlock took the seat next to Barker and poured himself yet another glass of scotch. 

 

"A few months after the case with Eliza Button. Most of my cases ended up in London anyways. All the big fishes seem to have an attraction to the big city and connections to it. It is better to be at the center of all this entangled mess. Definitely more busy now".

 

A smile crossed Sherlock's face at the mention of Eliza Button. It had been a very interesting case he had worked on. The young woman had moved to Surrey and was given a job as a secretary for a rather wealthy man, but the requirements were eccentric. The man was looking for a woman with a specific shade of red hair, which the woman in question had. She worked for him for week, traveling from city to city and worked at ungodly hours. When she arrived on the 9th day to her boss's house, it was completely empty. After finding any satisfactory answers, Eliza went to Sherlock. Two days later after following the lead to the man, Sherlock met Barker spying on the same target. Barker had been following the group of thieves for some time. They had been involved in one of the greatest robberies last year from a casino and they had robbed a valuable treasure the previous owner left on a save in the house Eliza Button lived. Amazed by Barker's observational skills and unorthodox methods like his own, they worked on the case together and brought them down.

 

"That's because I'm not here", Sherlock replied.

 

"Why did you left?", asked Barker as he put a cigarette to his mouth.

 

"London was tiring me", he said. Thinking that was in part the truth.

 

"That was something I thought I never heard coming from you". Barker lit the cigarette and smoked. As he let the smoke out of his mouth, Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply ,trying to catch the smell that brought him down sometimes. "Want one?", offered Barker, aware that Sherlock did not want to talk about his problems and a cigarette would calm him down.

 

"Of course". They sat in silence and stared at the void. Each lost in his own mind. The silence that accompany them was warm. Sherlock knew they didn't have to talk because the problems of Barker were just as visible for him as his problems were for Barker. Being both detectives, geniuses, bad at socializing or giving advice their best course of action was to shut up and smoke. Sherlock knew that life for Barker hadn't been the same since the accident in Irak that almost cost his life but took away his colours. The man suffered from acquired cerebral achromatopsia, a catastrophic tragedy for a man with painting as a passion. And became a man with a hatred for the sun and everything that remembered him of vibrant colours. His eyes became sensitive to the light and therefore used glasses that blocked this. However his night vision was anything but normal.

 

As minutes passed, the bottle of scotch became emptier and a deck of cards and poker chips were on the table.

 

"Poker is a lame of duck", said a drunk Sherlock. "But you need some pastries in order to win", he said victoriously as he showed a straight flush.

 

"I didn't expect you to get drunk so easily", said a tipsy yet still sober Barker.

 

Sherlock hiccup.

 

"Wow", he said surprised and giggled. Totally forgetting his reply at Barker's comment. He claimed his chips with clumsy hands and some of them fell to the floor.

 

"They make noises!", and laughed openly. Barker looked preoccupied at his companion's state and when he was about to reach the bottle, which he ditched drinking from a glass moments ago, he took it from him.  
"Oei!", claimed Sherlock. "Give a man what he needs!"

 

"I doubt you're acting like a man, now. I'll say teenager". Barker drank the remaining liquid from the bottle.

 

"Whas with e glasses?", Sherlock hiccupped. "You look like troll with the", Sherlock paused looking for words. "That thing", he pointed at Barker's face "in your butt".

 

Barker looked thoroughly confused.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Butt", Sherlock stated and leaned back with clumsy movements and spilling the chips on the floor. Obliviously, he continued his talking. "You have a butt face". Sherlock tried to imitate the serious face of Barker. With concentration, he tried to close his expression. He didn't realised his head was falling until it hit the table. And Sherlock didn't move.

 

"Sherlock".

 

Nothing.

 

"Sherlock".

 

Not even a hair moved.

 

"Sherlock?", Barker asked suddenly worried.

 

Sherlock's right arm was sprawled on the table and his head was seemingly lifeless on the table. Barker stood up and walked over to Sherlock, afraid Sherlock passed and he hadn't prevent it. His body was warm with the blood rushing through his system and he heard the beating of his heart. He took some deep breaths before starting the routine that came so naturally to him after so many years. Even after his time in the military. His hands checked Sherlock's pulse. Though, weak, was still presented. He was cataloguing Sherlock's state and when he was about to check Sherlock's pupils reaction to the light, the man started to fall from the chair and Barker grabbed him just in time before hitting the floor

 

"God, you're heavier than you look". Barker made its way with the deadweight of Sherlock to the living room and put him on an armchair. He knelt down next to the body to continue but then Sherlock's body turned back to life as fast as a lightening. The movement startled Barker which stood up immediately thinking the movement was a convulsion and had to call the ambulance. But then Sherlock was laughing openly.

 

"You're fac-", was all Sherlock could manage before the wave of giggles took over him. Annoyed because he was fooled, Barker let his body fall on the armchair next to it and gave the man the same serious look he gave him before. Then at the sight of Sherlock, bonelessly sprawled on the armchair, hair a mess, eyes red and glassy and the most ridiculous grin, he forget why he was mad and couldn't help himself giggle.

 

"You're drunk".

 

"Obvious, John". Sherlock replied. Barker noticed the wrong use of name but didn't say anything.

 

Then, the door to the house opened and Josiah entered the room. Confused by the sight of two giggling man sitting on his living room.

 

"What are you doing here?", he said as he walked in and hung his coat.

 

Finally aware of the new addition to the room, Sherlock glanced at the man's face and burst into yet another attack of laughter. Barker, finally composed, took over.

 

"Night, Mr. Amberley. We we're just passing by to bring you some news. I'm glad to inform you we've solved the case".

 

"Thank god!", he exclaimed. "Where is Rose?"

 

"The Queen!", Sherlock was on his feet and tried to walk with as much grace he could and stood in front of Josiah and bowed.

 

"Are you alright?", asked Josiah. 

 

"I'm", hiccup. "perfectly fine", a big and stupid grin was on Sherlock's face. "A tiny bit tip-sy", he pronounced the two syllables slowly. "But we only have one question for you".

 

Sherlock's composure changed and was standing more straight and with a serious face. Barker stood up next to Sherlock.

 

"What did you do with the bodies?", they asked in unison.

 

Josiah's expression changed immediately. Sherlock was satisfied by his reaction and was just about to call the case to a close but Josiah ran away upstairs. Barker wasted no time in following him and the two man disappeared from Sherlock's sight. It took a moment for him to realise what had happened and he ran upstairs almost tripping on an armless sculpture of someone he didn't know. He heard the steps coming from the floor upstairs and made his way up. When he arrived at the third floor, the lights went off and he was left in the darkness. It took him a couple of seconds to locate the electricity box in his mind and made his way to the last floor. Walking slowly the way only a truly inebriated person could. When he finally managed the stairs and was on the 4th floor, a hand grabbed him by his arm and he saw the tinted glasses close from his face.

 

"You should have stayed, Sherlock", Barker hissed.

 

"No time fo da. Killerz on the loo. Besides", he stretched his hand in front of him. "can't see m hand. Imma fall".

 

"You might be a genius, but you're incredible stupid sometimes", he sighed and dragged Sherlock along as he confidently stepped in the pitch dark as if the lights were on. He avoided the materials and told Sherlock about them for him not to trip.

 

"I thought you lied about your sight", he said loudly. "You're like an eagle!"

 

"Shut up, Sherlock", complained Barker quietly.

 

"Shut up, Sherlock", Sherlock mocked in return.

 

"Okay", he said as he dragged Sherlock into an empty room. "You stay here. Don't come out".

 

"Like hell will I-", Sherlock started but was cut short by the slam of the door. "Okay".

 

Barker moved rapidly along the fourth floor. Checking the rooms as he paid closed attention to any sound that might revealed his prey. There was movement on his right arm and saw the man hiding behind a pile of wood with his eagle eyes. Aware that the man couldn't see him he walked slowly in order not to make a sound. But his eyes were too focused on Josiah that he wasn't careful with his steps and his foot spilled a water bucket. Josiah immediately ran off and Barker was at his foot following and rapidly catching up with him. Josiah turned to the right and so Barker followed and almost fell on the two men currently on the floor. Sherlock and Josiah had crashed against each other and the both of them were currently complaining. Barker manhandled Josiah to stand and didn't let go. Josiah struggled against him, but was no competition to the military man.

 

"I catch that?", said a confused Sherlock once standing.

 

"Yes", replied Barker. "Now call the Police".

 

"They're here", Sherlock pointed out the window with an enormous grin. "Sherlock's no stupid".

 

\------------------------

 

Barker handled the police while Sherlock sat once again in the living room with yet another glass of scotch. DI Kensington was questioning Barker when he saw Sherlock on the couch.

 

"Who's him?"

 

"He's Sherlock Holmes. Gave me a hand".

 

Kensington approached Sherlock and studied him.

 

"What's wrong with him? Is he drunk?", Kensington asked as the smell of alcohol invaded his nose.

 

"No, he's not".

 

"Yes I am".

 

Replied both of the private detectives. Kensington looked at both of them incredulously. Before setting his eyes on Sherlock again.

 

"I am very drunk and I solved a double murder. A task all of the yarders wouldn't complete. I should get a Nobel Prize for that. And I believe you would find two bodies in the panic room at the master bedroom behind the closet. Idiot though he was smart enough to fool the police even Sherlock Holmes! Your killer thought the pair was having an affair. Was mad and killed them both".

 

Barker sighed, unsettled by the man's attitude. Kensington turned to Barker and asked.

 

"Is he telling the truth?"

 

"Yes".

 

20 minutes later Barker and Sherlock watched as the bodies were being taken by the medics and all the contents of Sherlock's stomach decided to go for a stroll through his mouth which led them to be kicked out of the scene.

 

As they made their way out both of them were silent, the night was chilly and it sent goosebumps through Sherlock's body. Sherlock felt lightheaded and his vision started to swirl and the nauseous feeling came again. Barker caught him just in time and led Sherlock to his car.

 

"Sherlock, where are you staying?", he barely registered the words.

 

"Baker Street".  
\-------------------------

 

Light should be banned from existence if it was threatening his life. It burned his very eyelids and skin it felt terrible and only thinking about his hatred for sunlight intensified the headache he was currently having. It was the fourth time he'd woken up bit this time he felt with enough energy to get up and close the goddamn curtains and make his way outside. As soon as he walked out, he stopped. Confused that he was at Baker Street instead of his flat in Belfast and then he remembered everything he did the past 2 days. Barker must have helped him get here after the case. Did they caught Josiah? He didn't want to think about it. Everything was exactly the same but covered with a thick layer of dust. He turned around and saw his footsteps cleanly popping out on the thick layer of dust. Along Barker's one and the straight line of his feet being dragged across the floor from last night. There was another set of footprints, at least 1 week old that could only be from Carl. 

 

Sherlock ignored his headache and started working. He investigated the flat room for room. Drawer for drawer. Inch by inch. But he found nothing more than hideous dust. He'd never hated dust so much in his life. After 2 hours, he admitted defeat. He sat on his old armchair, not minding to clean it from the dust and stared at the other armchair in front of him. It didn't feel right. Something was building down Sherlock's stomach and he was sure it wasn't hunger. Even though he needed to eat, he reminded himself. It felt like he had rocks on his stomach and were too heavy for him to stay upright and the more time it passed, the further they sank and dragged his intestines and other organs. He wasn't taking it anymore. He picked his coat and went outside. Hailed a cab and thought all the way about how he was going to brought the subject to the woman without her getting mad or something. He knew it was bad but right now he wished for the world she was drunk so it made his work easier. 

Sherlock entered the apartment building, took the elevator to the 5th floor and stood in front of the 168. He took a deep breath before knocking on the door. Someone answered back, so he waited until the door was opened. Harry was sober and hadn't drink for at least a year, clearly living alone and with two cats. She seemed healthy and there was colour on her cheeks and a bright in her eyes that wasn't there last time Sherlock saw her. But her expression was one of a mad person and banged the door close in his face. 

"Harry!"

"Go away you prat! I don't want to see you!"

Realizing that she was not going to listen, Sherlock picked the lock and got in. Harry was no where in the living room, so he walked into the kitchen and saw her chopping tomatoes furiously on a board.

"Do you know where he is?"

Harry gasped in surprised and almost cur herself with the knife. She turned around and pointed with the knife to Sherlock. With a dangerous look on her face that was enough to make anyone piss their pants she said: "Go away or I swear to God I'll kill you no matter if I go to jail". 

"Apparently your words of choice runs in the family", he replied sarcastically. 

All Sherlock felt next was cold wind caressing his left cheek and the goosebumps making their way through his body. He turned around and saw the knife stabbed on the wall behind him. His blood ran cold, suddenly aware of the dangerous and positively mad woman in front of him that had every intention of killing him if he refused to do as she said. But he was stubborn and wasn't going anywhere without getting what he came for. 

"Where is he?"

"Owh, you're the great Sherlock Holmes. Why don't you deduce?", her voice was low and threatening. "You're a bad person, Sherlock Holmes. What you did to John", she shook her head in disapproval. "Only a heartless person would do that to someone with such a great heart".

"I know". 

" **"You. know. nothing",** she screamed at the top of her lungs. "He's been living on his own God knows where and away from everything he knew and the people he cared because you made him vow not to come back. What kind of sick person are you?'

"Harriet Watson I need you to tell me where he is", Sherlock said with a stern voice. 

Harry walked to him and stood only centimeters apart from him. "For what?", she spat in his face. "For you to go and put his world upside down again? Because let me tell you, that's all you've done to him. He grieved you. He married an assassin and lost his child. That's the action you've brought to him. and then you throw him in the bin like a used condom after you're done with your plays". 

"Harry, please".

Harry closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I've been 2 years and 76 days sober. If you don't go right now Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God my first day as a murderer will start today". 

Harry wasn't going to give any information. Sherlock decided to take the easiest way, but he had other methods to get what he needed. He turned around and exited the flat. He needed time to think and decided that a walk was required. 

He thought about Harry's words. It was true. all he did in the past was to put John's world upside down. He had complained. But usually he liked his lifestyle and didn't want to change it. Even though John was close to him, the closer they became, the more difficult it was to predict his movements and what his thoughts might be. Of course some things were obvious from the first glance. But every time Sherlock thought he had figured him out, he would do something amazing and unpredictable that left Sherlock's mouth open. It was _seven years_. John might have changed his mind. He might be angry because Sherlock didn't respond sooner. Though that wasn't exactly his fault. Was Harry right? Was he heartless? Was he indeed a sociopath? 

No, that didn't make sense. Every time his heart muscles contracted, he felt a new hole and blood running freely from them. The feeling in his stomach wasn't gone. it was heavier now. It was midnight when he climbed the steps to 221 B. The flat was quiete and cold. Sherlock turned the lights on and saw an envelope on the table that wasn't there before. Interested, he walked to the kitchen table and picked it up. 

_Barker_

He teared it open and looked through the papers. It was John's bank account activity. Last used 12th August 2022 in Ahmedabad, India. Information social accounts was limited. He last sign into his blog on 11th March 2025 somewhere in Dunedin, New Zealand. And a picture of him in an airport from Barcelona in 2021. _He waited a year_ Another on 3th December 2025 in Taipei, Taiwan. There was a postcard from Sydney dated 3th December 2026. Only 4 months ago. It said in a familiar writing:

 _Came to see the Rugby World Cup. Love you, John"_

At last there was a ticket under the name of Sherlock Holmes. 

Tomorrow at 0700. 

Destination: Sydney, Australia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barker is a genius.


	5. Chapter 5

If there was something he hated the most was airports. He knew the reasons he had to wait and to be honest he didn't want to die. But why on earth did they take so much time if right now they had technology at their fingertips? John was most likely half the world away from him but he couldn't get fast enough because the plane made a stop at Dubai first. Right now, he was internally cursing his pride because it was the only thing stopping him from calling Mycroft. He clearly didn't care the woman next to him thought he was crazy because he was muttering to himself. He decided to review all the information then.

There was absolutely no money left. He didn't buy anything. It was all transactions. He was surprised John had such a large amount of money when he left. But then again John wasn't one to spill money and they had a large string of aristocrats clients that paid them ridiculously high amount of money. The last proper thing he bought was a ticket to New Delhi. Most of the transactions were made to a lawyer. Was there something there? Something wrong he needed a lawyer? Not enough data. He cursed himself for not paying attention to John's "trivial" day to day things. He spent 9 months in Spain, judging by the photo taken on April of 2021. He said a friend in his letter. But John doesn't have a large list of friends. This one however, he must have trust him enough to go ask him such a favour in a short period of time. One just as adaptable as him. Most likely an old friend back when he was at service. They all seemed to be bonded by the camaraderie they once shared. He will have to infiltrate the government's data base later. Barker had made the dreadful business of looking for information easier for him. He would never admit it but Barker was his only rival. A rival he could trust. The picture in his hands showed an extremely skinny doctor with terrible bags under his eyes. He was swimming in his button down and he couldn't see the muscles that once were clearly visible even with jeans on. The signs were clear. The PTSD was full on again and it was eating John slowly. Even with his head bowed, he saw the sharp edges of the bones in his face. His eyes were sunken, cheeks hollowed, cheekbones prominent. Sherlock never had the urge to feed and take care of someone until he saw that picture.

The picture taken in 2002 in India at least had some colour. John's hair was becoming grayer and grayer. But what surprised him the most was its length- just under his shoulders and a full beard and a hateful moustache. Apparently he hadn't even bothered to bring some razors to his journeys. He looked like a caveman. Sherlock would have hated those khaki shorts if John hadn't have such great formed legs. Now that he looked closer, he could see his physique was lean and muscled. Lots of walking or running. Maybe both. John however, was a man that cared about his hygiene and wouldn't let such an important detail as cutting his hair go by unnoticed. Therefore he must have been somewhere where it wasn't available. What? The jungle? Looking for what? A tiger to feed his adrenaline needs? If that was the reason Sherlock woud be surprised. But no. John wasn't that stupid.

The picture of Taipei 2025 showed another John. One he wouldn't be able to recognise after so many years apart. John's hair had gone completely gray. Though long, was carefully swept back and the beard was gone. He was wearing a proper suit. One that showed his figure to perfection. It must be doing some kind of magic because John looked healthy. The bags were gone and had a certain glow in his face. There were few wrinkles, but definitely less than a man his age. You could see he was someone that did some kind of physical activity because nobody simply gets butt and biceps like his just because destiny said so. He looked far better than he ever had living with Sherlock. Sherlock exhaled a long and shaky breath. John was clearly doing fine. Did John really wanted him there?

Sherlock brought the postcard to his nose and inhaled. Maybe if he inhaled it, he would catch the smell of John's wrist where it met the paper. When did Barker broke into Harry's apartment? He didn't know. But he gave him credit for bringing this back to him. He had done some research yesterday night. The RWC started in September of that year. Which meant John was still there, at least, waiting for the RWC to start. That gave him a minimum of 5 months and a maximum of 8 months for John to choose another destination. He could find him. Of course he could. John was predictible wasn't he? He will probably go to England's first match. With all that of Queen and Country. It must apply to sports too. There was only one evidence he needed to go through. However he needed internet for this one.

He waited to land on Dubai to get his laptop out of his back and connected to the airport's Wi-Fi. He first decided to look for John in social media but remembered he hadn't use it since his leaving. But there was one thing he had overlooked. John's blog. The time he was logged in the sessions were too long for reading. And far frequent at the beginning of his leaving. Sherlock immediately logged into his old blog.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. John's last post was the same as 7 years ago and there was nothing new. What would he been doing? There were no new comments or notifications. But that was likely. People lose interest over time when there's no action. It was until he clicked on drafts that he realised how many entries John had written and never posted. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. There were at least 15 entries over the first 5 years and Sherlock's hands started sweating. There was a reason he never posted them. Was it hatred? Personal reasons? Or just him keeping his word? There was only one way to find out.

 

> 27 Juli, 2020.
> 
> Spain is beautiful. Even though I don't understand Spanish, I like how it sounds. I wonder if Sherlock knows how to speak it. Of course he would, he knows like 20 languages or so. Everything makes me think of him. And everything I do is because of him. The food smells and looks amazing, but I am not able to pass it down my throat. People laugh and are caring, but I do not treat them with the openness I used to have. I keep staring out of the window or at something, anything. And my thoughts always wander to him. He has even dominate my sleep. My nightmares are no longer of the battles, pools, bombs and fights. But Sherlock dying because I wasn't able to save him. And when I wake up the tears simply ran down because I never returned the favour.
> 
>  
> 
> 13 September, 2020
> 
> I've gone every Friday to the park. People there now see me and come to talk to me. There is this kid who I've been talking to. His name is Raul, about 9 years and knows English. It's good to talk to other people other than Alan. He has a certain curiosity and is very talkative. A brilliant kid. Wants to become a epidemiologist. I've been teaching him what I know and I am amazed by how fast he understands. Certainly he could skip secondary school and go to university once and for all. Problem is that his parents don't have enough money. And he doesn't go to a proper school, he even has to work in order to help them. But I can see the fire in his eyes. I am certain he will become great and make his own path. I sometimes complain about my life. But Raul is in a more difficult situation than me and he is working to get out of it. I wonder if I have to stay here and wait instead of going back and make things right.
> 
>  
> 
> 19 December, 2020.
> 
> It has been 5 months and I still know nothing from him. Every night before I go to bed I check London's news and try to see if he has done something. I'm sure he solved the murder-suicide of the Prime minister. Mycroft surely would have him do that sort of work. God, he hates it. I've land on a temporary job at a hospital. A&E. I was missing that sort of rush. Last week a terrorist group put a bomb just 2 block from where Alan and I where having lunch. I shouldn't say this, but I felt alive again. My heartbeat was pumping hard and fast and it was the first time I heard it in these last months. My thoughts just shutted down and all I could picture was the person in front of me and what I had to do in order to save the person. Maybe I should go back to this again.
> 
>  
> 
> 31st December 2020.
> 
> He's not coming, is he? He always does this. Only takes the most logical path. Why does he have to be like that? Doesn't he realise anything? I don't mind living with him, go to cases and taking a bullet as long as he is save. But what does he do? He leaves me. Because that's what's happening. He left me. Not the other way around. Sherlock Holmes is a righteous bastard. And I hope he is suffering for the stupid things he has done. He is a sociopath after all. He warned me and I am stupid. Maybe he is right. That would make more sense than all this mess. Maybe he only played with me for a while because he was bored and needed someone to talk to. Like I was his bloody therapist. Sherlock did this over and over again. Why do I think he will come back? He is always late, either way. Doesn't care about anyone except his massive intellect.
> 
>  
> 
> 6th January 2021.
> 
> Happy birthday, Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
> 28th January 2021.
> 
> They are calling my name right now, but I don't care. I am supposed to board the plane and truly iniciate my plan of disappearance once and for all. I doubt I've done a great job about that. I've left clues everywhere. Sherlock is always late, right? I've always waited for him. And he has always come, doesn't matter how dark the situation has seemed. 
> 
>  
> 
> 3rd March 2021. 
> 
> Raul is doing great. I offered helping him and his family but denies any money. Stubborn child but I like his spirit. I am making sure he does his homework and we often walk around. I was never so smart. He is collecting several plants and analyzing its properties. He also created a wind turbine in his home that generates electricity to lower the costs. I was really impressed by his design and it turns out it works. I will see him grow. Of that I am sure.
> 
>  
> 
> 31st March 2021.
> 
> I bought the ticket to India. In a month I will be leaving. I've made the plans already. I just miss something and I don't want to do it. Over the last months I've grown attached to Raul. I have subconsciously compared him to my little one. She would be 6 now. What would her favourite colour be? Ballet or drawing? Or would she be more athletic? Football or rugby? Or none of them? Would she rather do experiments and reads books? She liked watching Sherlock work. He did like watching her. Every time I saw him staring at her I couldn't swallow his lies of him being a sociopath. It didn't make sense. He saw her as the most magnificent creature and talked to her about everything. Mary and I were both jealous her first word was "mahdah". Of course Sherlock would teach her to say "murder" instead of "Mama" or "Dada". Sherlock wouldn't teach her anything else would he? Would she have keep calling me John instead of Da because of Sherlock? I often think about Mary. How would she look like now? How will everything be right now? Still tense as the last days or like the first days when everything was a bless? Everything seemed easy back then. Sherlock's company made me happy. But he is not coming. I fed myself that lie.
> 
>  
> 
> 27 April 2021.
> 
> I promised Raul I will come back. He will be done with school in 9 years and I said I will come back. He wants to hear about me in my absence, so I guess I will have to keep practicing my writing while on vacation. 
> 
> 29 April 2021. 
> 
> If I could describe India in one world it would be "hot". Yes. They put hot sauce on everything. Everything is hot and I absolutely adore spicy food but the weather is too warm here it feels I am melting. Frankly I don't want to die yet. The hotel I am staying is beautiful. I've tried yoga and I am rubbish at it. Tourist places are breathtakingly beautiful and they make me think there are more to life than this. A woman recognised me today. Even though I am under a different name, she called me by my name and I was frozen. I've never seen her before and she has never been to England. Something doesn't sound right. 
> 
> 3 May 2021. 
> 
> Apparently Sherlock has been here. No wonder. Of course he would be here. He also took a two year vacation from London some years ago. Of course he'll be traveling the world solving cases. And of course he will not go gently about it. Apparently he rubbed some mafia gang and want to take me down in revenge because their leader is now in prison. They send me a letter and three bulky lads to my room, had it not been by the new weds next door, I would be lying lifeless on the floor. Thank god I'm not such an idiot and my training that I escaped. I have an eye on them.
> 
>  
> 
> 7 May 2021. 
> 
> I brought the entire gang down. Case solved. I will celebrate with some of the smokey things they use here. Currently somewhere in Asia.
> 
>  
> 
> 29 October 2021. 
> 
> I ran away to the mountains. It wasn't my initial plan but as soon as I got rid of the gang that wanted my head so much because of a certain careless someone, the local police was looking for me. Let's say I wasn't that careful either and ended blowing too many things and shouting threats to everyone. Thank god I am sure they will leave alone. If anything I can be intimidating at times and my research did a pretty good on negotiating their silence. Too many years spent with a careless maniac with no sense of laws tends to bent your morals. Well, at least they are imprisoned.
> 
> That same night I took the first bus and I overslept. When I woke up, in the middle of nowhere, I realised I had missed my stopped and I was the only passenger left in the bus. The driver asked me where I was going and I told him I didn't know. He said he was going to Nepal and I had my first Asia Roadtrip. (Tours made in the military don't count). With music, food and chickens. Yes, there were chickens everywhere. It took a couple of days. We saw amazing landscapes, buildings and even a group of savage elephants. We were attacked y monkeys and almost fell to an abyss. When we arrived at the destination, we parted ways. I encountered a group of Irish doctorate students going to a Buddhist templein order to investigate the connection between their meditation, lifestyle and the brain. I was received in the temple. In my time there I learned their traditions and customs. And as time passed I adapted to them. It was a peaceful time. Just the matter of being at such heights breathing clean air was extraordinary. I can still feel it in my nose. And the nights. The sky looks so much closer and bright and vibrant. I thought that if I stretched my hand I would touch it. Their put ours to shame. The food was amazing, I didn't even know you could do so many things with vegetable, but then again I am a meat lover and miss some rib eye terribly. I spent my time visiting little towns across the highland. Most of the time by my own, just walking down the path. But I always encountered people. Giggling kids laughing about my hair, helping mothers to cook and men with their day to day work. I learned a lot about Asian medicine. they use a great variety of plants, I even brought some samples, just in case. But above all these things, I had time to think. I realised I am too focused on my problems that I don't see other's and miss when I can help. In those months I laughed, played, sang, dances, hiked, learned, loved, prayed, ate and experienced things I haver never had. But what made me the happiest was to help. Not only physically, like both my profession and attitude demands of me. But also emotionally, mentally. To know how they were doing and to get to know them intimately. Their past, emotions, their stories, opinions. These people have been through a lot. Nothing compared to what I have. And they stil have a smile on their faces.
> 
> There were times I was alone, but never felt lonely. I met a local man one night in the mountains that was coming down. I never asked his name but I remember his words clearly that night when I told him about my situation. First time I did since all went down. HE told me that as long I could see the sun, moon and stars, I was not lost. I only had to learn how to read the signs and navigate accordingly. Life is that way. Will I get stuck and feel like I am lost when all I have do is look at skies and do? Certainly not. There are a lot of stars, I won't just focus on one.
> 
> 13 November 2021.
> 
> I turned on the tv today and heard about what happened in Japan. Another earthquake and Tsunami. I might have to practice my japanese.
> 
>  
> 
> 24 December 2021.
> 
> I've been here just 10 days. There was a lot of paperwork I had to do in order to come here. I am currently at Sendai. After more than 1 month everything is still in ruins. My other colleagues told me it was worse, I can't imagine how much worse. People here work fast and don't lose time. I try to keep up with them and I like to think I'm doing a good job. It is sad to realise that only things like these unite us. Loss. What we thought that matter in life suddenly loses its meaning when the important things are just washed away with water. I see kids walking alone in streets, women crying the death of their beloved ones, men sitting quietly in the corner's trying to suppress the tears. And it only gets worse every time I enter the buildings we now use as hospitals. The conditions are deplorable. The beds we have are only for the ones in need of intensive care. And some of them don't even have beds. The floor is full of people that I can't find somewhere to step on that's not human flesh. The conditions are unhygienic, there's not a proper sewage system I am no longer bothered by the smell of excrement and urine. But I am doing my best to help these people. They need it. Because if there is just one enemy we all have in common is death. And it would be a failure to not see them smile, at least once, before it comes to claim them.
> 
> 6 January 2022.
> 
> Happy Birthday Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
> 1 April 2022.
> 
> I blame myself for what I did.
> 
>  
> 
> 8 August 2022.
> 
> Things have moved fast. Streets are clear and they are reconstructing the city again. Everyone has been evacuated in order to rebuild. I will be staying here for a couple of months before moving again.
> 
>  
> 
> 17 August 2022.
> 
> Tonight I woke up with my revolver to my head.
> 
>  
> 
> 2 December 2022.
> 
> Beijing is beautiful. I heard an interesting story about a man that crossed China in a year. Who knows.
> 
>  
> 
> 11 Feruary 2024.
> 
> I ate too much rice. I danced. I learned languages. I climbed mountains. I swam in rivers. I hunted. I grew a beard. I fought some bad guys. I slept under the stars. I dreamed. I thought. I drew. I met people. I have a horse. I can now fight with a sword. I played guitar. I talked. I got drunk. I walked. A lot.
> 
> I crossed China.
> 
>  
> 
> 4 March 2024.
> 
> I came back to Japan. Not sure why. Actually, I would be lying. I do know why. Today I stepped out of the train when an old patient, who I recognised as patient number 2154 came to me. Japanese culture is different from mine. They are not overly expressive physically. She merely stretched her hand and I took it in mine. That gesture however was enough to let me know her gratitude when words had fallen short. It was all in her eyes. I knew at that moment, I left my mark on the right people. People who truly needed it.
> 
>  
> 
> 30 November 2024.
> 
> It feels different to be surrounded again by English speakers. Specially when it has been years since I spoke it correctly and heard a native talk. Not that I am complaining. But it was rather difficult to have a casual conversation after all these years. It felt weird to be around extemely tall people again. I liked the feeling of being "tall" around the Chinese. But New Zealand is bringing me back to my old reality. I have an old friend who went to St. Bart's with me and is the head of a local clinic. He offered me a job and I took it. It is nice to have a certain stability in life again. The weather, location and people are nice. I can see myself living here. Besides, I met someone new. Maybe there's hope.
> 
>  
> 
> 6 January 2025.
> 
> Happy Birthday Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
> 11 March 2025.
> 
> I made peace with my past.

 

He stared at the screen and wasn't able to move his eyes from the last word.

_Past._

He had become John's past. Sherlock felt his heart stop as it became of stone. He sat still, just staring at the screen while his blood boiled under his skin. His breathing became short and rapid. Nostrils flared. Gripped tight on the laptop. Jaw clenched.

He threw the laptop across the hall. Got up and walked to the restroom. Oblivious to the stares of others.

Once in the restroom, he washed his face. No, this wasn't happening. He needed to control his reactions right now. He needed to think straight. Breath in through the nose. Out through the mouth. In and out. He looked up at the mirror and didn't recognised the person staring back at him. Eyes red, face pale, hair sticking to all sides. He looked like a wild animal.

"I told you not to get involved".

Sherlock eyes closed immediately and his grip on the sink tightened as the familiar voice continued.

"But now you're here. I was afraid of this".

"What do you want, Mycroft? He gave me a deadline, I am far more than late and now he has a boring, decent and stupid job that makes him happy and met someone new, apparently. That is what John wanted. What he always wanted. The only way he can have it is with me out of the picture. Harry was right. The only thing I will do is put his world upside down again and the circle repeats. There you have it. You're right. Are you happy?", Sherlock spat the words.

"No, Sherlock. I am not", replied Mycroft carefully.

At his words, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his brother over the shoulder. Mycroft was standing in the doorway looking at him.

"You are not sure about that".

"Yes, I am", he stood straight and faced his brother fully. "I just read it in his blog".

"That was 2 years ago. Besides this is different. He is already involved with you too". Mycroft stood there and looked at his brother closely and continued. "You have memorised every word of that blog", he stated. "I am sure you remember what he wrote on the 7th November after you came back from dismantling Moriarty's network".

Sherlock's mind ran to the date. Muttering every word to himself, trying to find what Mycroft wanted to point out. He read word for word in his mind. Trying to make sense of the complexity of the man's thought. Until he found them.

> I was hooked. He's like a drug. He told me about the terrorist plot and I was hooked. I had to help him. 

"That was years ago, Mycroft", he replied disappointed. He had expected something else. "Do be helpful".

"He forgave you once".

"Because he is an adrenaline junkie. He had missed it".

"He followed you".

"He was doing his job".

"He waited for you".

"My deadline has expired".

"Past behaviour is the best conductive for future behaviour, little brother. He left you traces. It doesn't seem to me he stayed true to his word. We both know he is capable of disappearing even from my radar. Now, don't have an emotional breakdown in front of me. Your head needs to be clear. You started this, you're going to finish this and don't make the mistakes I made", Mycroft's voice was casual.

"I can't simply pop up. Remember what happened last time", he said as the images of John strangling him in the restaurant flashed in front of him.

"That's your problem not mine", Mycroft replied with a fake smile.

"Excuse me, sir", Sherlock's eyes opened immediately at the sound of a young voice. "Could you help me wash my hands? The sink is too high".

Sherlock stared at the child confused for a second. He was sure there was no one in the restrooms but a look around confirmed it was crowded by other people. The conversation with Mycroft was just a product of his mind. Sherlock contemplated the idea of leaving the child, but remembered John would give him a look. So instead of walking out, he hooked his hands under the kid's armpits and lifted him so he could wash his hands.  
\----------------------

It had been 2 months. He absolutely hated the sun. It was too warm, all he wanted to do was lock himself inside the fridge. He had built his own network of informants in the city and had access to all the hospitals data bases. But there were no traces. Sherlock grew more frustrated by the day. Wasn't he working enough? What did he miss? He must be in the city. Did something happened to him? John wasn't here. There was absolutely nothing. He was getting madder and madder. He didn't eat, drank or sleep. Nothing was the same.

He stood in front of the wall with all the data he collected. He'd marked down every hospital, every tourist related place John would go, he extrapolated his finances and where he was more likely to be living. He'd even checked the papers for unusual activity. John would surely do some heroic act if the occasion presented. But there was nothing. Nothing. At. All. He wanted to tear the wall apart and burn everything. And just gave up. That would be stupid, he knew. It was just a matter of time, John would come out. He was sure. He just needed to wait. Even though he was rubbish at waiting. A walk would do wonders, right now. It'll help him to think clearly.

As soon as he stepped on the street his phone beeped. He read the message: 

_Is this the one you are looking for? -Jess_

There was an attachment, which he downloaded. When he opened it, he saw the figure of John Hamish Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back.
> 
> John is back.
> 
> Kinda.


	6. Chapter 6

His heart was pumping fast. It was a little monster in his chest ripping the tissue and trying to escape. His fingers flew on the screen as he wrote back a reply. He was running as fast as he could. Feet barely touching the ground. It was at least 2 kilometers, but Sherlock ran them as if it was nothing. No this time he wouldn't let John go. No, not this time. His legs moved faster and faster when he spotted the cafe. Yes, he was so close. So close. So close. He rushed in and scanned the place. Sweating, hair sticking to his forehead, panting heavily.

Where is he? Where is he?

"John?!", he asked loudly to no one in particular. Everyone turned to look at him confused and others clearly alarmed by his state. "Short man, gray of hair, mid 40's, was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Someone?".

"He just walked out", said one of the waitress.

"Which way?", Sherlock immediately crossed the distance between them and took her by the shoulders. "Which way? Tell me which way!", Sherlock demanded. His phone beeped again. He quickly glanced at the letters before rushing outside. Why was Jess so slow? Now, John was steadily moving away in a motorbike and he had no idea where he was actually going. Sherlock stopped at one busy street, just at the corner of his eye, he spotted a tourist bus. Without the driver. Sherlock quickly rushed to the bus and taking the driver seat.

"Hello, I hope you are so far enjoying your staying but its time to go!", he said on the mic as he turned on the engine.

"But you're not the driver!", one man at the back screamed.

"Now I am", he showed a fake police ID. "You're going to witness a persecution through these streets because I'm not letting this suspect go away. Now everybody shut up and sit!".

Some of the passengers stared at him in horror for what they were about to witness. Others had a big grin on their faces and were already recording it with their phones. Violently, Sherlock managed to get the bus on the streets while he called whoever sent that text.

"Are you following him?", he asked desperately.

_Yes, he's crossing the bridge now._

At those words Sherlock drove down the street with the speed of light. Crossing lights in red and not caring for the disaster he left behind. A grandma at the back was clearly terrified while a toddler was laughing uncontrollably.

_"He's stopped. The engine is off. I doubt he'll be moving any time soon. He's entering a house."_

"Fine. Stay there. I'm two minutes behind".

_"Sherlock I don't think it'-"_ , Sherlock hung up. He felt alive, any minute he would set the world on fire and screamed to the world he came back. Back to his one and only friend. John Watson.

A block away from the address, Sherlock stopped the bus and jumped like a monkey on fire to the street. He started running to the figure of the woman he recognised as Jess, and ran faster this time.

"Where is he?", he asked across the street without reaching her yet. The woman turned around and saw the tall dark man running towards her like a savage animal looking for his prey. Sherlock stopped in front of her panting, eyes on fire with only one goal.

"He's in there", she pointed at the house on the other side of the street. Sherlock was about to run to the door but a hand around his wrist stopped him.

"Hey, hey. Wait, for fuck's sake!", said the woman.

"What?!", Sherlock snapped looking at her with a murderous look.

"I don't think he would appreciate being interrupted. Look at the window of the second floor".

Sherlock's gaze turned back to the house and scanned the upper windows. John was kissing a woman. Passionately. And getting undressed. Both of them. The woman was pinned to the wall by John's body and his hands explored the young skin of her. Sherlock's mind ran a thousand kilometers per second. What was the best course of action? He'd found him and he wasn't going to give up after all the work he did. When he came back from dismantling Moriarty's network, he was with Mary having dinner. John nutted him. Three times. And didn't get a hold on his emotions until much later. No he couldn't burst into the house while they were having sex. John was a private person, he'll be very upset if he were to burst in while they were doing it. Not for his nudity, they had both at this point, seen each other naked. He'll be upset Sherlock crossed a boundary he was sure by now existed because they had that row when he burst in while he was having sex with one of his girlfriends. Something about ruining the mood and him deducing what she wanted without shame. No. Going in at that moment was a bad idea.

"You stole a tourist bus?", Jess' s asked amazed.

Sherlock turned around quickly to the bus he had left behind. The tourist were watching from the window, waiting for something to happen and with their cameras ready.

"No I borrowed it. It was the only available", he looked at Jess and realised he must clean this mess. "Look, I want you to take the bus out of here. If you are in any kind of trouble just call this number", he took Jess's phone from her hand and wrote a number. "And explain everything to whoever is at the end of the line. You must say it's me. Everything will be cleared and you'll get your money. Now go".

With that Jess ran away.

Sherlock stared at the window. They were already moving somewhere else and he lost sight of them. _"Past behaviour is the best predictive of future behaviour",_ he remembered the words. A magical appearance was out of question, he'd learned that. He needed time to think and design a plan where everything would go smooth. But first he needed to know John's feelings about an encounter. He said in his blog he made peace with his past. Does that mean John doesn't want to see him again? People change, but how much exactly?

He entered the yard of the house and climbed a tree where he had a proper view of the property while hidden. Looking in his pocket he fished the pack of cigarettes and lit one. After John left, he'd picked the old habit again to pacify his mind. There were questions, of that he was sure.

Who was this woman? Were they in a relationship? And if so, would that stop John from coming back to him? In fact, does he even want to? He knew he just had to face John and tell him everything. It would be easier, yes. But the idea of being rejected scared him and he didn't want to see the look on John's face when he admitted he didn't want to come back. He had to be sure before facing him. Harry was right in one thing. If he popped again in John's life, he would set it upside down again. And if John didn't want to come back, Sherlock wasn't going to do so. Sherlock hoped the words in his letter were still true.

A couple of minutes later, a naked John appeared in the hall and walked to the window in front of the tree Sherlock was sitting. From this angle, Sherlock could perfectly see the front of his former blogger. John leaned against the frame, crossed his arms and stared outside. The light of the sunset fell on his evenly tanned skin and glowed in gold. A sharp contrast to Sherlock's burned red skin. His hair was short and was a mixture of gray and white. His eyes were the same light green and were visible from the distance, shinning against his coloured skin. The direction of the light, brought his physique to attention. His eyes were fixed to the scar in his shoulder and followed the curve of it down his arm. Admiring the strenght and built from afar. His arms covered the scar on his stomach, the one Sherlock put there. It made his stomach sink. John's arms fell and he stood straight, head up and his jaw set. He looked at the tree in front of him and Sherlock thought for a second he had spot him. But there was no recognition in his face. It was rather somber and sad. Deep in thought. And just as that, he turned around and left.

_John, what are you thinking?_

\-------------------

Sherlock followed John everywhere. He knew every detail about his new life. The reason he wasn't able to find him earlier was because John wasn't living in Sydney. He was living in Gosford, a couple of minutes from Sydney. The woman he was with when he found him, was just a one night stand. Insignificant. John was living alone, didn't have a job and had changed his name to 'Peter'. He spent most of his time outside, walking, drinking water and with a sketchbook under his arm. He never left his room without it. John didn't draw when he was living with him, in fact he never saw him doing that or even doodle some nonsense. Sometimes John would walk at night and come back early in the afternoon. He always got lost and ended up at the beach and waited until the sun came up to ask someone for directions. John made friends quickly. Apparently drawing caught the eye of most people and they would come to him and talk. And most of the times it also ended in sex. Just how much sex did John really need? Or was he craving to not feel alone?

Sometimes, John would forget to go home for days and simply walked the streets and the outskirts of the little city. He simply talked to people and they would help him. John met a lot of people. From the fisher of the town to the most important political figures. He made his way through the city laughing, drinking, partying. He was always surrounded by people. They found him charming and invited him everywhere and he would accept.

Sherlock followed him. To all of those places. He helped John even in his darkest moments when he was drunk and miserable from partying too hard and no one was there to rescue him. He had risked himself to be discovered, but fortunately John was always too unconscious to recognise him. He knew it was foolish, to show himself without being prepared and with the plan still not going. Even so, Sherlock felt the urge to help him and not watch him suffer. One night when he brought John to his room he got a look of his sketchbook. There were drawings of people, landscapes, animals. Just about anything one could find in the city. Sherlock was amazed by the fact John even drew.

Months passed, the RWC came. New Zealand won. And Sherlock still hadn't started his plan. It was December of that year that he finally decided to start the plan. He took a deep breath, aware of how much he hated phone calls and dialed the house number.

"Morning", said the voice.

"Clarice! You are the one I was looking for. Do you have a minute for us to skype. It's important", Sherlock said with a charming voice.

"Who is this?", Clarice asked.

"Sherlock".

"Sherlock! It's been a long time".

"Yeah, yeah. Clarice this is important. Could you do it?"

"No problem".

2 minutes later Clarice appeared on the screen. As soon as she saw Sherlock her mouth hung open, she didn't even blink.

"Sherlock, is that you?", she asked. Not quiet believing her eyes.

"Do I look like the last time you saw me?", Sherlock asked with a business like tone.

"Sherlock what did you do? Hmm.. Why? No, you don't. Why?", she asked clearly confused.

"What? You don't like my dreadlocks? I paid a lot of money to have them done".

"Sherlock. You're black".

"Of course not. This is the colour of native americans. Might be a little darker. Though this is not permanent. Would start fading in three weeks or so".

"With who are you talking, Clarice?", asked Barker in the background.

"You must see this", Clarice replied.

A couple of seconds later, the familiar face with sunglasses appeared on the screen.

"Long hair suits you. So does the beard. I wouldn't recognize you".

"That's not it. He's black", said Clarice to her husband.

Barker started laughing wholeheartedly. And soon Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at the irony of his own actions.

"Would you recognize me?", Sherlock asked after they both stopped laughing.

"Absolutely not", they responded in unison.

"I think that's it", Sherlock said. "I better be going before this starts to fade".

"Your brother would have an heart attack seeing you all dressed like that", Barker commented.

"That's an expression I'll certainly hope to watch". 

And so, with his new skin colour, black dreadlocks, black beard, dark brown lenses, khaki shorts, tshirt and sunglasses he headed to the airport to Samoa. John's next destination.

\--------------------------------

Sherlock didn't get his eyes off John for a second. Afraid he might lose him if he even dared to blink. The flight to Samoa was passable. It was only when they landed on the island that the problems started. John was one of the first to get off the plane, Sherlock was sitting a couple of rows back but an idiot had to bring a large backpack with him that stopped everyone from getting out. By the time he got off, he ran all the way to migration. And was forced to wait for his turn. When all the tedious paperwork was done, John was already on the exit. Sherlock hurried to the exit as fast as his slippers let him, John was already crossing the street. No, this wasn't happening. He was so concentrated on not losing John out of his sight that he didn't watch the street before crossing, and it was the horn of the car that made him aware of this but it was too late because the car hit him and he was on the deck of the car. In severe pain. 

People were rushing to him, hands on him. He couldn't hear anything properly, he was lightheaded and saw colours in his vision. All he thought was about John. He'd lost him again. That was so foolish from his part. Why did he wait? He should have talked to John face to face instead of designing this goddamn coward plan. He needed to get up and walk. Maybe he was still there waiting for something. Yeah, he needed to look. Slowly his hearing came back to him. And all he heard was a steady and calmed British accent saying: "Tell me. Does it hurt here?".

Sherlock's head snapped up, suddenly very aware of his surroundings and very much alive. There, touching his ribcage were John's hands looking for any broken ribs.

"'m fine", he managed to get out. He felt a little sore, but it was nothing compared to the wonderful warmth and concern John emanated as he instructed Sherlock to lay still. Sherlock on the other hand was stubborn and wanted this to be over soon before he made something ridiculous. 

"I'm fine. Nothing hurts. Just my arm. But that will be fine", he said in an American accent.

"No, lay still. It's safer if I check you. I'm a doctor", John's smile made his heart jump. John was laughing at him. There were people surrounding them, but Sherlock didn't pay attention to anything but John. After some minutes, John stood up.

"Well, its not bad. You probably don't need a trip to the A&E. But you might have something I overlooked. Think you can stand up?"

"Yes".

John held his hand and Sherlock took it and stood up. Sherlock felt his head spin a bit but wasn't going nowhere near a hospital right now.

"Are you okay?", asked the driver.

"Seriously. I'm fine", he replied irritated by the question. He fished for his wallet and asked. "How much do you think it'll cost?"

"I have no idea".

"Take this", Sherlock gave the driver more than enough money for the damage he'd done and Mycroft's card. "Call me if something else comes up", he added. Remembering people saying that in films. The driver counted the money and his eyebrows shot up high. Sherlock turned around and started walking.

"Wasn't that too much money?", asked John.

"Maybe. I don't know", he shrugged his shoulders.

"So where are you going? I mean, you must be at least sore. Is someone picking you up?"

Somethings never changed.

"I don't know. I simply pointed at a map with my finger and here I am", Sherlock lied.

John smiled at him, amused of the carelesness of the stranger.

"You can stay with me. I rented an apartment a couple of minutes here. You can stay there as long as you like. I have meds somewhere here", he waved a hand at hid two suitcases. "If you're feeling pain".

Sherlock tried to be amazed, but the truth is he didn't have to. John's concern left him a little distressed and happy. "Yeah. Okay".

They made their way to the bus stop, Sherlock behind trying hard to ignore the pain in his lower back while John turned around to check on him every 30 seconds. When they arrived, a tall man- taller than Sherlock, with blond hair raised a hand and walked towards them. 

"Peter!", the man took John in a manly hug and patted his back a few times. John returned the hug with the same enthusiasm. "You're looking roasted, my friend". 

"Blame Australia", John responded. They let go of each other and the the blond man had a big grin plstered on his face. 

"Well, then you'll be grilled a little more here". They both laugh at the exchange of joke, which Sherlock didn't find amusing. The blond man looked at Sherlock with the same smile. 

"Hello, there", he stretched a hand. "I'm Eugene. Peter didn't tell he was coming with someone else". 

Sherlock contemplated the idea of giving the man a murderous look and leave his hand hanging, but there was no time for that. "Alex", he said as he shook the taller man's hand. 

"Yeah, just met him too", said John aware of how silly it sounded. Eugene gave him a confused look that lasted for a second before smiling again. Sherlock wondered what was wrong with him.

"Let's go, people!", Eugene sang happily. "There's no time to loose in Samoa".  
\---------------------------------------

In the ride to their accommodation, Sherlock learned how the two of them met. They had encountered in Beijing and started their adventure through the large country together. Someone must have stabbed Sherlock in the heart, because what he was feeling wasn't normal. Eugene worked at a real estate, but decided to take a sabbatical year after he was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 31. Sherlock deduced he was a vegan, activist and had alcoholic relapses from time to time. Mostly because of his divorce. The woman cheated on him. Boring. 

The entire ride Sherlock looked at John, afraid he might recognised him. But so far John didn't give any indication, he just talked all the way with Eugene. Which was a relieve because Sherlock was going crazy. The plan was to stick next to John and understand his thoughts and figure out if he really wanted to go back with Sherlock. All of that in 2 weeks. It was enough. He already imagined and planned some scenarios in which John would willingly tell him his thoughts. He just needed to execute them. And if he does happened to want to, then he would reveal his true identity. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure how he will react to this, deep down he didn't want John to punch him. Even though he deserved it. 

Eugene entered a small street with large trees at both sides, it seemed they were in a jungle and the only light was provided by the car's front lights. Sherlock looked out of the window and could not see more than 5 meters in front of him. 3 minutes later, he saw a brightly lighted house in the distance. Eugene gave John three keys, they said their goodbyes with a promise of calling him if they needed anything and he was gone. 

Sherlock had a better view of the house once he was out of the car. It was a large modern white house with an immense garden. The beach was just a couple of meters away from the entrance and at his right was a typical Samoan house with no walls and the famous oval rooftop. There were fire torches around the garden, illuminating a path to the very entrance of the house. John made his way to the entrance and opened the door. Everything was white from the floor to the roof. It had a minimalist design and the surfaces were shiny. There was one or another touch of green through the rooms because of the plants but that was about all the colour it had. Both John and Sherlock had a satisfied look. 

"Sorry, but I think we haven't presented each other officially", John said stretching his hand. "Peter". 

Sherlock took it in his. "Alex", he replied with a soft smile. 

"Nice to meet you", he said and made his way through the hall. "Come on. Where are you sleeping?". 

Sherlock followed him and they both explored the rooms in the house. There were 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a large kitchen, living room, dinning room and a porch with view to the ocean. Sherlock choose the room with a closer look to the ocean. Having the feeling John would take walks in the beach as he did back in Australia. It was night already and Sherlock could see just how tired John was. Either way, John examined Sherlock again, gave him some pain killers and told him to wake him up if he wasn't feeling well. He then excused himself to sleep. 

Sherlock went to the bathroom and looked himself at the mirror. He was grateful technology had advanced enough for him to change his skin colour temporally because make-up wouldn't do for this task. The weather was too hot and would probably melt. The dreadlocks, just under his shoulders was probably a bad decision given the weather but it masked his curls really well. And the full beard did an amazing job at covering his long and remarkable features. The dark brown contact lenses hid the colour of his eyes. If he was being honest, it was by far his best disguise. He looked like a proper caveman with clothes. But now he was living with John under the same roof, something he wanted to avoid in order not to give too much about himself if he ever does. 

After showering and changing to some briefs and shirt, he walked around the house. When he passed in front of John's room, the door was open. Sherlock knew John was a light sleeper and didn't enter, afraid he would wake the sleeping man up. Instead, he leaned against the door frame and looked at the sleeping man. 

This wasn't his initial plan. God he was fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samoa is too beautiful to be true.


	7. Chapter 7

He stood the remaining of the night studying the sleeping figure. Cataloguing the changes it had seen through the years. John's hair in the dim light was the brightest object in the room. His eyelashes maintain the same sand blond he remembered, he analysed the different length and the shade of blond they reflect. His face was completely relax and he could see the different wrinkles on his forehead. He wanted to trace them all and feel the texture of each one under his fingertips and print them in his memories. In fact he wanted to explore John's face to the point he didn't have to see him to recognise him. Because he'd memorised it by touch. Every wrinkle. Curve. Dip. All he wanted was to hold him close and expressed how sorry he was for destroying him the way he did. He'd been a fool. He wanted John to forgive him and come back to him. But he wasn't going to force him. Not this time. If John wanted to come, he'll be happy. If he didn't want to, it was fine. As long as John was happy, he would stay away from him and wouldn't destroy it. Because all this time, al these years, there was one thing Sherlock always did. First was to protect him. Second was to make him happy. It was always like that. Sherlock barely lived without his companion. He'd gone through hell in those years. He needed John by his side. He kept him right, no matter in which universe they lived. If John wanted their friendship again, he would find a way to protect John no matter what. As long as the both of them were side by side. If John wanted to come, he'll do it. To hell his pride and logic. But only if John wanted.

The first sunrays woke Sherlock up from his thoughts and he walked outside to the porch. The chilly wind caressed his skin and made its way through his long hair. The sound of leaves moving, the waves and the birds singing made Sherlock curious. He sat down on the grass and played with the melodies in his head. It was only when the sun became too bright and he was feeling hot, that he opened his eyes and walked back to the house. As he came closer, he spotted the figure of John sitting on the bench by the porch with the sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in hand. Working on his piece with tremendous concentration.

Sherlock sat next to him. John didn't acknowledge his presence and kept drawing and looking at the horizon every once in a while. Sherlock watched him working, the way he flexed his jaw gave him an indication he was uncomfortable with something. He was about to excuse himself, thinking that his presence was the cause when John said:

"I hope you don't mind".

"Sorry?", Sherlock said a bit confused. But then his gaze fell to the paper for the first time. He'd drew the landscape in front of them. The fresh grass, the dancing waves, the swinging leaves of the trees, the cloudy sky. And there in the middle of it all he drew Sherlock sitting crossed legs with his back to his view staring at the infinite sea. His dreadlocks were a tangled mess because of the of the wind and he could see John drew the outline of his back muscles where his shirt was clinging tightly because of the direction of the wind. Then his gaze fell to John's hands, which were putting the graphite pencils back in their case and wondered how long John had hidden this from him. And how those hands could not only take and save someone's life but also make beautiful things like his drawings. He wanted to tell him that but what came out was:

"May I see?", a little smile crossed John's face. He gave him the sketchbook and Sherlock tookhis time to analyse John's work. He wanted to see the others and save them in his mind if nothing goes according to plan and John doesn't go with him, so he could have something new to think about John. But it was anew sketchbook and it was its first work. 

"Don't you have others?", Sherlock asked.

"Right now, only that one", John pointed at the book in Sherlock's lap. "I normally buy a new one every time I go somewhere new and sent the previous one to a friend". 

"You've been traveling, then", this small talk was so stupid. But no he was Alex for Peter. And Alex and Peter didn't know each other. God he wanted to tell him the true so bad. But no, he had to be sure. He wasn't going to ruin John's life again for nothing. 

"Yes, these last years. What about you?". 

"Me too", Sherlock replied. 

"Where to?", John always managed to turn around the conversation to others. 

"Last time I was in Sydney. Before that UK". 

"I'm from the UK if you didn't noticed", John teased and elbowed Sherlock in his ribs. 

"Obvious. Your accent".

"I don't know about you, though. I can't say I am familiar with Americans but I bet you're from there", John's eyes darted to the horizon. 

"Chicago", he said the first American city that came to his mind. "What about you? Where have you been?"

Sherlock watched John darted his lips out to lick his mouth. He saw how John clenched his jaw and a his features were stone like. "I too, was in Australia last time. New Zealand. Spain. Taiwan. India. Japan. China. Nepal. Madagascar", he let out a deep breath. "Yeah, I guess that's about it". 

"You've beaten me", Sherlock said dryly. 

"I'll say I crushed you", John stared at him with a playful smile on his face. "But you're younger, I guess, I'm not sure, and you'll probably travel more than me". 

"Let's hope so I can get you down your throne". 

Both of them giggle softly before staring at the horizon once again. The silence between was a little tense at first but then they got used to it and it was like if all those years hadn't happened. Sherlock was next to John and that was all it mattered. 

"Why, Peter?", he asked after some moments. 

John stared back at him with a little frowned on his forehead. "Why what?".

"Why do you travel?"

John stared at him for some moments intently, he could sense John's mind racing to come to an answer. 

"I guess, I do it to escape. You?"

"To find my happiness and bring it back home", Sherlock hadn't meat to say those words. But he couldn't bring himself to lie more than necessary to the one person that truly make him happy. John stared at him for some seconds before turning his head back to the sea. Then John's stomach grumbled very loudly, like a giant monster complaining about confinement that Sherlock was able to hear it. 

"God, that was embarrassing", he said as both of them laughed like little kids. "Come on", John said between huffs of laughter. "I better make breakfast. Suggestions?".

\---------------------------------------

John's answer to his last question had him worried. Escape. Escape from him? Probably. Most likely. Of course he was running from Sherlock. But then again, he wasn't doing a great job on that. Escape from what, then? He hated when John was vague. He had time. 

"What do you want to do today?", John had asked over breakfast that morning. 

"I don't know". 

"We should change that".

"What are you implying?"

"That we should do something fun". 

"Like what?" 

"What do you think about the sea?", he had a serious face while he cut his pancake. 

"Not a lover of the sun, if I am honest. But I do like the sea". 

Sherlock thought that had put John off, and wouldn't ask about it again. John had gone somewhere the entire day. He for once didn't follow because he deemed of more importance to check through John's briefcase and laptop. He found nothing of importance really. He simply used to connect to Internet and bought online for books. Didn't have any pictures or valuable documents he wrote. Internet history reveal nothing more than useless information of traveling and booking sites. John, as always was a light packer and only had a backpack and a briefcase. One which contain clothes, the other several types of shoes and toiletries. He wasn't surprised John had bought several weapons and brought them with him in his journeys. At least this time they were all registered. Sherlock spent the rest of the morning and afternoon plotting events in his head of what to do when John came back. 

As it was getting closer and closer to 8 o'clock, Sherlock started to get worried. John was out for 11 hours now and he hadn't call or sent someone to tell him where he was. Sherlock tried to convinced himself that John was a man. A military man. With experience ad would be more than capable to defend himself. But then in front of his view he saw all the times John got hurt when in a case. John falling from a ladder, being kidnapped, drugged, strapped with Semtex, being punched, shot and stabbed. Sherlock's heart started to beat faster and faster. His mind grew bigger and bigger just by thinking of all the possibilities of what kind of problem John might have got himself into. He might be dead, for God's sake. He didn't know this island or someone here for that matter and he was in the middle of nowhere. HE was going to look for John. He grabbed his laptop and immediately started looking information of the island. Sucking all the information he found like a sponge. He had some ideas already, he even went and took one of John's revolvers just in case. But nothing prepared him for what he saw. 

Sherlock was standing in John's room when he saw a lights moving outside in the sea, they grew brighter and brighter and came to his direction. Sherlock went outside and saw the sailboat coming to the shore and stationing itself in the little dock a few meter next to the Samoan house. Then the small figure of John emerged and walked through the wooden tables of the dock. He was jogging his way to the house and didn't noticed Sherlock standing in the porch until he was there with him panting lightly. 

"Here you are", he said with his bright teeth out. "Let's go". 

"Where?", Sherlock asked surprised and relieved of seeing John save and well.

"You said you like the sea but didn't like the sun that much. So here we are. We're sailing. Come", John said as he walked passed Sherlock and locked the porch door. "Is the front door locked?"

"Yes". 

Sherlock followed John's lead and to he little dock. Sherlock noticed it was a fairly new catamaran. "How did you find this?"

John turned to see Sherlock. "Someone owed me a favour", he replied cheekily. 

"Do you at least know how to sail?", Sherlock asked worried. As far as he knew John never lived next to the water, let alone took sailing classes. Or a license to do so. If they sink, there was nothing Sherlock could do because he didn't know. 

"What do you think I was doing the entire day?", he said before jumping in the boat. Sherlock knew John was a fast learner and he wasn't going to let John go alone. And so, he too, followed suit and went inside. John immediately went behind the steering wheel and slowly they made their way to the open sea. They didn't talk as John made its way through the sea and he looked good. He should owned a boat, Sherlock thought. He looked quiet happy staring at the open sea. "Look at the skies", John said in amazement. Sherlock, who's eyes were glued to John the entire ride, looked at the skies and saw a multitude of stars. All of them which he didn't know their names, and was happy because if it were for him, he would rename them all in John's name. John stood up from his seat and walked outside. They both spent time some time watching the stars and big moon that illuminated their faces. Sherlock glanced at John for a moment and saw his soft expression, his eyes wandering in the endless sky and admiring its beauty. The chilly air went through John's white hair and made a disaster out of it. Sherlock wanted to tame his hair with his fingers and feel the texture under his fingertips. 

"We should play something", Sherlock said. 

John turned to look at him. "What about poker?"

"Poker is boring".

John laughed at this, hard. Sherlock didn't understand if he did something worng, So he stared at John confused.

"What's wrong?", he asked. 

"Come on. Don't be such a party killer", John took a deck of playing from his pocket. "I don't like poker either. The fun disappears with all those poker faces. I meant Irish poker. We get drunk and we'll see what happened". 

Owh.

"Owh". John walked back inside. By the time Sherlock entered there were different bottles on the table already. There was a bottle of Grappa, wine, tequila, white rum, vodka and whisky. John was sitting on the table, already shuffling the deck. Sherlock took the seat in front of him. 

"Okay there are four rounds. Just follow my suit. The first round counts for 2 drinks, right?", Sherlock stopped shuffling the cards satisfied. "Now what is the first card going to be? Red or black?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Red".

John flipped the card on the table. 4 of hearts. "Owh, shit. You're right. That means I get to the 2 drinks. Which one do you choose for me to get intoxicated?"

"I'll go with the whisky", Sherlock smiled happy to himself. John gave him a ridiculous grin before serving himself the drinks and drank them. John shook his head. "I feel very much awake now. My turn. I say mine will be red", he passed the 4 of hearts to Sherlock before flipping the card. King of spades. "Damn, I started with the wrong foot, already".

Sherlock laughed and said "Whisky" again.

"You're enjoying this already, aren't you?"

"We just started".

"You're so going down. Wait Alex. Because this game fucks everyone up", he said with a grin. he served and drank again. "Round two! This one counts for 4 drinks" John prepared himself mentally. He was losing but Peter was going down with him. "What would you say? Is it higher or lower than four?"

"Higher".

John flipped the card. 3 of Diamonds. "HA! I told you!", John exclaimed happily. "I choose the Grappa", he didn't even wait for Sherlock to take it, he was already serving him a drink. Sherlock drank the first. Second. Managed to gulp the third. And miraculously the fourth. 

"You will get drunker than me, Alex. I'll make sure of that". 

"We'll see", John replied. "My turn. I say its lower than my king".

"Of course its lower than your king. The king's the highest!", Sherlock complained.

"We're following the rules".

"The rules are stupid!"

"Not my problem".

"It should be".

They both stared at each other heatedly. Then John cocked his head to the side.

"Owh, I see", he said carefully.

"What do you see?".

"You are afraid of getting drunk because that means you lose".

At his words, Sherlock took the bottle of Grappa, opened it and started drinking eagerly from the bottle as if it was its only source of water. Almost choking on it at least twice because of its strong flavour. When he was done, he felt warm and slightly dizzy, but sober enough to give John a pointed look. John who was looking at him as some weird caged animal in display, started laughing. Sherlock started laughing. The room was filled with laughter. And then John suddenly stopped laughing and was drinking the entire bottler of white rum. Sherlock kept laughing as John basically swallowed the bottle. John's face was red, he attempted to keep on with the game and started shuffling the deck but they all fell to the floor. 

"Ooops", he said and giggled. 

"My bladder", Sherlock complained. 

"You have officially the smallest bladder on the islan-", John fell from the chair. 

"And you have officially the worst balance on the island", Sherlock said. 

They both laughed. John with his arse still on the floor, and Sherlock closely to fall from his own chair. They kept drinking however. 20 minutes later they were outside, sitting on the stairs to the sea with their feet in the pacific ocean, passing a bottle of white wine to each other. 

"We miss omthing", said John. "Muzi". He made a show of looking in his pocket the way a drunk person exagerated everything and took out a remote control and pressed bunch of button before the music started playing. It was a soft reggae at the background. "Ownloaded 'em. Thought ya dread guys like some reggez".

Sherlock was drunk enough he wasn't even sure where he was. The soft music made him close his eyes slowly and his head started swinging along the beat. Then his entire body was swinging. Just like John's body was swinging. He was singing at the top of his lungs.

"DON WORRY. BOUT A THING.  
CUZ VERY LITTLE THING GONNA BE RIGHT  
SINGING DON WORRY BUT THINGS  
CUZ VERY LITTLE THING GONNA BE ALRIGHT"

"WHA YOU", Sherlock hiccuped "SINGING" 

John stopped with his singing and started unbelievable at Sherlock.  
"You don't know this song?", he asked. 

"Nope, give me that", Sherlock pointed at the bottle of wine. 

"Ya a bad dreadlocks", John murmured. "Baddy baddy bud".

John kept singing at the top of his lungs, using the bottle as a microphone and the liquid poured down his head and body. But kept singing all the way. 

"I want some more, John". 

John was oblivious to Sherlock drunkenly calling his real name, so he went on singing. Sherlock, irritated by the fact there wasn't alcohol in his mouth, went and tried to steal the bottle from John's grip. But a bad moved and he slipped from the bottom step and straight to the warm water.

"UGH!", he said very much awake. John saw the man struggling to stay above the water and very confused of what had happened. As the head of the taller man came above the surface, all the hair was coming down in front of his face like a creature straight out of a horror film. John couldn't help himself and started laughing uncontrollably. Sherlock irritated yet again but this time by John, swam to the boat, grabbed John by his ankle and dragged him to the water. John fell heavily on it and watered Sherlock's face. 

"WHAT THE FUCK, ALEX!", he screamed. 

Sherlock made a face imitating the other man's words and rolled his eyes. The two drunken men started to fight in the water. Punches were thrown, arms were grabbed, bodies were dragged by their ankles, tickles were exchanged. It was until John drank a mouthful of salt water that Sherlock worried and swam with John on his back to the boat. He put the man on the steps before clumsily climbing too and fell next to John. They were panting heavy, but soon their breathing relaxed and Sherlock heard John murmuring under his breath. 

"The song is true", John said this time in a higher voice yet still low. Sherlock tried to listen to whatever John was listening and heard.

_No, woman, no cry;_  
No, woman, no cry;  
No, woman, no cry. 

_'Cause - 'cause - 'cause I remember when a we used to sit  
In a government yard in Trenchtown- _

"Women are bad. My wife was bad". 

"Why?"

"She shot my best friend". 

Sherlock was a little bit more awake by now, he was aware which friend he was talking about. "Are you still best friends?", Shaerlock dared to ask. 

John hiccuped twice before responding. "Nope". 

John was already closing his eyes. "Are you happy?"

"Yeah, I am. I like happy", John said smiling big and he pointed at the moon. "'s big. Ain't it?"

"It is". 

The wind blew at that moment, and both their bodies were shivering from the cold. "We need to go inside", Sherlock said.

"Coming", John stood up clumsily, as did Sherlock. When John tried to climb the stairs, he fell again. "Naah, floor's fine". 

"We'll catch a cold", Sherlock tried to get some sense into him. 

"I'm cold already, idiot". 

Sherlock wasn't going to leave John there. He bent to take John's body, but his very inebriated body wasn't working to the fullest and couldn't lift John up without losing his balance with a high chance of falling to the water again. John was already asleep and wasn't making any effort on getting himself up. With a sigh, Sherlock accepted defeat. And fell asleep next to the sleeping form of John in a matter of seconds.


	8. Chapter 8

There was a steady yet comfortable sound under his ear. It wasn't loud but soft enough to comfort him in his sleep like a lullaby. The heartbeat, he recognised. John accommodated his head so his ear was just on the beating heart of the body next to him. It was hard and steady. Pumping the red liquid through the veins and giving life. Slowly, he opened his eyes, fighting his heavy eyelids and silently cursing the strong light coming from the window above. Next to him, Alex was asleep. Asleep enough to be drooling and not mind the dried saliva on his beard. Luckily nothing of it traveled to his head. He disentangled himself from the man, making sure not to wake him up and have their first awkward conversation when everything was running so smoothly. They were in the bedroom. How did they come here? Was he wearing this last night? Definitely not. Alex must have taken care of that. He hoped to God not to catch a cold.

The headache wasn't as bad as he thought last night, but he found that two aspirins would be handy for the light thumping in his head. He went to the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of water along the aspirins and swallowed them on his way back to the bedroom. Leaving two aspirins and the bottle of water on the small nightstand for when Alex decides to wakes up. He wasn't so fond of cooking after hangovers, therefore he merely opened the fridge and grabbed a bunch of berries and made himself a thick smoothie. The light of the sun was intense that morning good for swimming and to tan but frankly, he didn't want to see the daylight.

He sat on the sofa and drank his smoothie quietly. Staring at nothing in particular. The sea was a bit mad but it was nothing to worry about. His eyes followed the rolling of one grappa bottle until it hit his feet. Looking up from where it came, he realised the mess they both left on the table. It had been a great night, though. Midnight swimming. What were they thinking? Although it was more wrestling in the water but he wasn't going to complain. He should check Alex again for any injuries. He knew for a fact that some injuries presented themselves after an accident and those are more likely to be dangerous because they were left unattended. Apart that he was from Chicago and didn't knew Three little birds, he barely knew something about the man. He should get to know him better, he seemed like a nice chap. That is, if you take the fact he doesn't like to loose. It had become a ritual for John to draw first thing in the morning but his eyes weren't ready for the sunlight. He went to the bedroom and looked in his bag for his tools already brainstorming on what to draw when his eyes fell on the sleeping body on the bed. _Yes_ , thought John. _The reminiscence of the consequences of the night before as told in a drawing_

No. Not a bad idea.  
\------------------------

Later, Alex woke up looking, frankly, like shit. His eyes were puffy and red, one dreadlock was standing like a tower on his head and John's clothes wasn't doing anything to make the situation better. His pajama pants were too short for the man, ending just one quart of his calf above his ankles and the t-shirt was wide for his frame yet short. Leaving a fine line of skin between the pants and shirt.

"I think you should have packed your clothes. Mine looks ridiculous on you", John teased lightly.

"You kidnapped me", Alex said flatly as he threw himself in the chair next to him. It was afternoon already and the sky was changing its blue for more earthy colours, John didn't expect Alex to wake up so late.

"In my defense I didn't know I was kidnapping you. Want some?", John asked as he gave him a piece of watermelon which he took immediately and ate eagerly. "Did you take the aspirins I left you?"

"Yes, Doctor", Alex replied with a mouthful of watermelon.

The both of them sat outside eating watermelons under the soft light of the afternoon. Staring at the island in front of them through their black tinted sunglasses.

"We should climb one of those mountains", John said casually. "I wonder if I might found a mythical creature".

"Good luck, then", Sherlock said dryly.

"Owh, Come on. Why are you spoiling my fun?"

"I was wishing you good luck. I don't see how that is "spoiling your fun", Doctor?"

"Well your sarcastic tone does. Want some more?", John stretched another watermelon piece to Alex out. Which he took. "You know I am a Doctor. However I don't know what you do", John said, pushing his way in a new conversation.

"I'm a writer".

"And you write what?"

"Words", Alex answered with mouthful of watermelon. At the ridiculous sight, John laughed.

"Yeah, of course", John huffed. "I mean wh-"

"Novelist. Mainly crime and psychological thriller", he said and bit on the juicy fruit. "I'm at a block, though. I would be very grateful to find an original idea".

"I might help you", John said swiftly.

"You do?", Alex asked surprised.

"Of course", John cleared his throat and sat straight, making himself comfortable for the story ahead. "I once met this man, he was a private detective. Well sort of, he called himself a consulting detective", John tutted. "He was so unique he had to invent his own profession. First time we met he knew all about me in one look. He called it the science of deduction. Gave him a puzzle, a person, a case, code whatever. And half of them he would solve in the blink of an eye just by connecting the dots and see the most likely outcome. It was brilliant, really".

"Sounds like a genius to me", Alex remarked.

"He was. In fact that was just one of his many talents".

"What else did he do?"

John glanced back at the horizon. The memories of Sherlock flooding in his mind after so many years locked. A warmth spread from John's chest to the very extremities of his body. A smile slowly appearing on his face. "He played the violin. Though most of the times were terrible pieces just to annoy everyone around him, but when he really set himself to play it was simply amazing. He was a man of science, chemistry being his favorite. He could easily be the leader of whatever prestigious research he decided to take and in the best universities giving lectures. Just because he preferred chemistry didn't mean he didn't excel in others. I would say he had about the same medical knowledge as me. Even applied it better sometimes. I remember he noticed my ex wife's pregnancy before us all. And she was a nurse", John chuckled at the memory of Sherlock at his wedding day. "He was a terrific actor, if I am honest. He could simply adapt any roll and did so in many cases. If he hadn't chosen to be a detective he would be showering in Oscars". 

"You talk highly of him", Alex said in a soft voice. 

"Well, yeah", John shrugged. Embarrassed because it was happening again. The babbling of Sherlock. "He is the kind of person one would talk about. But it pissed me off many didn't see his qualities".

Alex frowned. "Why wouldn't they see his qualities?"

"He was a prat most of the times", John stated immediately. Alex almost choked on the watermelon. 

"Was he?", he said between coughs. 

"Definitely. Deducing people was amazing. But when you were the one being deduced was off putting. He didn't have a clue of social boundaries and many times he would just point out everything you were doing wrong in front of everybody. He always needed an audience. It didn't matter if you're partner was next to you, he would scream at the top of his lungs who was having an affair. Among other nasty secrets if he managed to spot them".

"Did he ever put you off?"

"Sometimes. But I couldn't stay mad at him".

"Why? Was he so charming?", Alex asked smugly. 

"You make it sound as if he was magical", John accused. 

"Why? Was he?"

"That would explain his deductions", John joked lightly. He looked back at the man next to him. He had a lopsided smile and an amused twinkly eyes. 

"Maybe" Alex shrugged. "I take it you worked with him". 

"Yes, mind blowing cases", John made himself comfortable in the chair. Ready to tell the stories he'd live with Sherlock. Alex was eager to listen. Amused by his stories and incredible inside of the nameless genius John wa talking about. They talked about the different cases. His very first case with Sherlock, The elephant in the room, The mysterious matchbox, The red-headed league, The hounds of Baskerville. The good old cases Sherlock managed to shine when the answers were improbable. By the time he was finished with the most mind blowing anecdotes, the sun was coming down and the sky was painted in bright colours which were reflected in the water giving it an orange colour. They sat in a companionably silence. John was glad Alex didn't complain about how much he talked about Sherlock, in fact he seemed to want to know more. John's eyes were momentarily lost in the sky and its ever changing colour and John thought about Sherlock's ever changing eyes.

"You talked about him in past tense. What happened?", Alex inquired.

The questions sparked all the memories of his last case with Sherlock. 

> He had bring down the most dangerous of criminal Europe had ever seen. But nothing prepared him for the one that arose in 2019. None of them had ever heard of him until one day they received and envelope with a message _You're next._. They didn't know what was coming next and Sherlock ignored it. They didn't have any clues or signs of who sent it and then they were trapped with no exit. They were fooled by a new case that led them directly to an empty warehouse, what they encountered that night was the most grotesque image John has ever seen in his life. There were rows and rows of kids hanging. Dead. In various states of decomposition. The smell is still something he's not able to forget. He's never seen his friend so confused in his life. Or hurt for that matter. Then they were knocked out and were hanging upside down like dead animals in a slaughterhouse. He was beaten, bleeding and unconscious. An hour later or so, he can't be sure, they were found by the police. Sherlock didn't talk, although he knew Sherlock must know something. The following months he wasn't himself, hyper aware of his surroundings almost paranoid. Every time he questioned him about it, he would simply walk away. Some months later they came in and saw a man sitting in the living room uninvited. At first he thought it was a client, but the way his colleague was acting raised his alarms. The man in front of them was Mr. Mortimer. The exchange of words was quick and he soon dismissed himself. Not before saying: _"The east wind has come"._ John knew it was trouble. There was a wave of terrorist attacks the following days and they weren't able to stop half of them. As the days passed Sherlock became more and more frustrated there were so many important things going on he wasn't able to control all of them. His work started to come down along the city. He was out of his depth, the game was too elaborate and for the first time he couldn't catch up. Massive assassinations, bombs, mayhem. It was out of his power and couldn't stop it even with all the help he got. One night John asked him what he thought was happening and Sherlock told him it was his fault and he went out. Some minutes after he was gone, the room was full of men, eleven of them aiming at his head. He was forced to a chair and Mortimer came in and sat in front of him with his phone on his ears talking to someone. 
> 
> _"Sherlock. I have one last thing for you"_ , Mortimer's voice dripped with hatred. Sherlock must have muttered something because Mortimer replied. _"Love makes you blind, Sherlock. Just like it happened to me. I want you to see it"._
> 
> He still remembers the look on his face. Cold. Not a single muscle in his face moved as he set his phone on recorder. 

"I was shot", John says to Alex. 

The scar in his chest tickled and he immediately covered the area. He remembered the pain, the same he felt on his shoulder alive again. And all he thought about was that Sherlock hadn't eaten solid food in 4 days and he should have cooked some minutes before the arrival of the man who shot him. He remembers the steps of the men leaving the room as he pressed with all the remaining of his force on the wound in his chest. And then the rapid and loud steps of someone with large feet, screaming his name at the top of his lungs. Voice broken. the voice of his friend. He only caught a glimpse of the watery eyes and red face. Panic. Sherlock was panicking more than him. And he fell to oblivion. 

"But you were shot already. What was different this time?", Alex said and snapped John awake from his thoughts. 

"We fought. We did it many times, but this time it was different". 

> _Sherlock standing at the window, his back to him while John looked at him from his bed. It was the last time he saw him for months. His expression was cold as always, but his jaw was flexed. Worried, he noticed in the reflection of the glass. The image hunt his dreams. Mycroft disappeared. No one knew where he was. Not Lestrade, Molly or anyone with close contact with him. His homeless network refused to look at him in the eye. It was 5 months later that he appeared in Baker street. John was glad to know he was alive but furious he disappeared without saying a word. And Sherlock lost it._
> 
> _"I don't need you, John"_ , he said in the annoying calm voice of his. John remembered his blood running cold at those words. 
> 
> _"Sorry. What?"_ , he'd asked surprised. 
> 
> _You can barely hold yourself, John. You're of no use for me in your state._
> 
> _"Use?"_ , he'd asked offended. " _Sherlock are you listening to yourself? I was shot. Of course I can't do-"_
> 
> _"Exactly. You're not helping me with the Work. There's a madman still somewhere in the world trying to bring everything down. You're here doing anything. It doesn't help the cause, frankly. Now, I need my flat back. You'll be a distraction here for me while I'm working."_
> 
> John stood still. _"What are you implying?"_
> 
> _"John you need to move out"._ The way he said it. Cold. Calculating. No expression whatsoever. 
> 
> _"You're kidding"_
> 
> _"I'm afraid i wouldn't joke on something this important._
> 
> _"Sherlock. You can't kick me out of my own flat"._
> 
> _"Yes, I can. That's why I'm asking you"._
> 
> _"Sherlock. Tell me what's wrong"._
> 
> Sherlock just walked away to his room. John followed behind and burst in, taking the image of Sherlock unpacking. Even though he never unpacks. 
> 
> _"Sherlock"._
> 
> _**"What do you want John?!**_ , Sherlock screamed. John blinked. Afraid of the state Sherlock got himself into. _"All I've ever done was use you. I didn't need a flatmate. I needed a housekeeper, which you fill the roll perfectly. Not only was I well fed but the flat was clean, better than Mrs. Hudson could ever managed in fact. I needed someone to guard my back, someone who would patch me up so I could avoid going to the A &E and to prescript me medicines when I need them and listen to my incessant babble you barely manage to comprehend. You filled all of those vacancies. But now you can barely take care of yourself, Doctor." _, he spat the last word in his face. 
> 
> _"As your frie-"_
> 
> _**"We're. Not. Friends. John"** _. His breath. His smell. Their noses almost touching. The air thick around them. _"I went along with it if it meant keeping you next to me"_
> 
> _"You're lying"._
> 
> _" What makes you think that? I drugged you, I killed myself in front of you with less than a second thought, I've used you as a bait, ruined your marriage and now I'm breaking whatever you insist on calling it with you"_ , Sherlock walked passed him to the door and said as he walked. "I give you a month to find a new place, John" 
> 
> And he closed the door. 

"What happened?", Alex asked again. 

"He said he didn't want to see me again", John's voice was merely a whisper. 

> A day before the deadline John hadn't done anything Sherlock asked him to do. Sherlock grew more and more distant even if he was in the same flat with him. 
> 
> _"You haven't done anything I asked, John. I will be forced to do it myself then",_ he said casually from the dinning table. 
> 
> _"No. I don't care, Sherlock. I'm not moving",_ he said in a stern voice. 
> 
> _"I didn't expect you to be so stubborn",_ Sherlock remarked. 
> 
> _"We can discuss the irony of that statement"_ , John bit back. 
> 
> _"I've made myself clear, John. You will not be-"_
> 
> _**"I cannot be arsed about it, Sherlock. Just fucking tell me what's going on, you cock. I haven't been to hell just to be thrown here. I know you Sherlock, like it or not. I know you wouldn't ask me such thing without a good reason to do so. Now, tell me and don't make me hurt you because I'm at the edge of breaking your throat and knock some sense into your stubborn head. Now".** _
> 
> Sherlock watched him with disinterest. _"There's where you're wrong"_
> 
> _**"Stop. This".**_
> 
> _"Sentiment, John. It's your only flaw"._
> 
> "Don't come with that bullshit". 
> 
> _"You mean nothing to me, John. You never hav-"_
> 
> John punched him straight in the face. Hard. And went for a walk. He thought about how ironic everything was. Sherlock who time and time again claimed with his actions what John was for him. And in the rare moment verbalized it. But words weren't important when all he needed to say was John's name and the doctor would recognise what the detective was asking by just those four letters. He saw his friendship grow within the years, the walls slowly coming down with every case and every dinner and every row and every stake out. He'd seen his _heart_. The one he tried to get rid off was harder to hide than he thought and John had noticed. Sherlock, his friend would never asked him such thing willingly. When he came back the next morning, his things were packed and put in the living room. Sherlock was sitting in his chair and two other men, no doubt Mycroft's men were standing. John and Sherlock shared a heated glance. 
> 
> _"Have it your way then, Sherlock",_ Joh squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. _"Be aware I'll make it impossible for you to find me, let alone Mycroft. I see you or his minions near me",_ , he sent a murderous look at the two men, _"don't you think I won't rip your heads off no matter if I end up in jail"._
> 
> And that was the last time he saw Sherlock.

"Why did you leave?", asked Alex in a soft spoken voice. 

"Because I thought he would come back. He always does. Or did". 

"Would you like to see him again?" 

"No. I mean. Yes. I would like to see him again to see how he's doing. And asked him for the truth face to face. He would not ask me for such thing without a good reason. And he left me in the dark. But I wouldn't go back. I'm sure both have shape our paths by now. And besides", John shrugged. "I like running away".

They spent some minutes in silent. Watching the sun hide and the last sunrays disappear. Alex was far away in his mind as he stared in front of him. "Paths can be redesigned, Peter", he looked at him. 

"I'm quite content with the boat for now", John replied. 

"What? Do you want to become Captain Peter?"

"I _am_ a Captain", John pointed and they both laughed at the poorly thought joke. 

"But you still don't own a boat", Alex offered. 

"Maybe I'll change that soon", John smiled at him. 

And so they spent the rest 5 days on the sea- between laughter, anecdotes, swimming and games, until there was no water or food left.

Just the two of them against the rest of the world. 


	9. Chapter 9

John looked over his shoulder. Again. Was it so obvious? No, he's a doctor and looked worried. That meant he might be perceiving some signs of whatever Sherlock was having. No, Sherlock didn't have anything. His body was perfectly fine. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. 

Or not. 

"Sure you're fine?", John asked over his shoulder.

"Totally", he lied. John gave him a suspicious look before looking back in front of him. Sherlock behind. The day was extremely sunny, it burned his eyes. Sweat was covering every inch of Sherlock's skin, even the most secret of places. A quick glance at John's legs told him it was the same for the doctor but he seemed more used to the infernal walk they were having. The road was not in its best state and took them longer to arrive at their destination. If they had any- John said he wanted to walk in the mountains. What a waste of time. But he was not going to let John go by his own. There was only four days left and he was going to spend all that time next to his former blogger. 

As time passed, the temperature arose and Sherlock became light-headed and grew more tired. He didn't complaint. Of course he could do it. It was just the heat slowing him down, he could get to the top and then he wou-

"Okay, we're stopping here", John declared and Sherlock was silently glad for their stop. But no, he wanted to be over with this as soon as possible.

"Why?", he asked, sensing the reasons why John wanted to stop.

"You're obviously in no state to continue, Alex. We're stopping here I will ch-"

"I'm fine, Peter", Sherlock interrupted him. John looked at him in the eye before dropping his bag.

"Fine", John replied. "I'm stopping for me then".

"You're lying", Sherlock replied.

"Of course I'm lying", John said in a casual tone as he sat on the ground. "I'm stopping for you, idiot. You're being stubborn and I can see you're exhausted. You almost fell downhill twice and didn't see the large tree in the middle of the road and you collided with it". He said these words as he looked in his bag for something.

"I was distracted by the landscape".

John handed him a bottle of water. Sherlock immediately took it from him.

"Didn't know your shoes were part of it", he responded sarcastically. "Don't drink it all, I only have two bottles", John demanded.

Sherlock paid no attention and continued to drink. When John realised this, he tried to get the bottle back. But Sherlock needed the water and wasn't going to stop drinking.

"Stop. Drinking. It", each word was said with a light punch to Sherlock's arm. Sherlock kept drinking and didn't expect John to roll him on his back and start wrestling for the bottle in his hand. John pinned him down, Sherlock struggled. It was when John caught his wrist holding it tightly between his fingers and against the ground that Sherlock loosened his grip and let loose of the bottle. Neither of them was fast enough to stop the rolling of the bottle and it fell to the abyss. John and Sherlock observing how the half full bottle disappeared from their view. The both of them laying on the ground, panting and more exhausted than before.

"I'm not sharing mine with you", John said.

"As you wish".  
\--------------------

"Well, at least we have plenty of water", said Sherlock an hour later under the darkened crying sky. Soaked and shivering a little.

John turned to see him. His hair was plastered to his scalp and forehead, water drops running down his eyelashes and face, jaw set, nostrils expanded and giving him a spectacular murderous look.

"Shut up".

They shared no words for minutes. The water drops crashing against surface the only sound his ears caught and the earthy smell all around them. Even when they were shoulder to shoulder sharing body heat, there was a wall between them. He sensed it in John's rigid back, furrowed brow and set jaw. The temperature dropped incredibly due to the hard rain, he could barely see further than 12 meters. He thought immediately of John's shoulder and his complaints when it rained back in London. Was he hurting? A quick glance at him told him while not in pain, his shoulder was a little stiff. Did his chest hurt too sometimes? Of course it would, it had been far worse than the shot to his shoulder. Did his heart ache from more intimate things related to him? Sherlock caught glimpses of this in the 10 days he'd spent with John. Especially in their hungover conversation in the boat. He'd seen John's pained face, eyes set on the horizon but focus entirely in his past. John's left hand was clenching. That very night he heard John in his sleep, talking desperately and moving frantically on his bed. His name on his lips. Sherlock's stomach tightened, afraid and guilty of giving his friend nightmares.

But he'd also noticed the way John had talked about him. In some stories his voice was amused. Others was dripping with admiration and amazement. At some moments, it was fond and at the same time, a little melancholic. Sherlock's heart fluttered at the sensation of accomplishment. Though not the one he was trying to get. But a small one by having John remember their time together with as many details he could- even though, for Sherlock, weren't many. At least John enjoyed the cases.

As he spent more time with John in the island he realised how John went on his vacations. In the last four days, they had not explored any of the main attraction of that side of the island, like normal tourists would. Instead, John would ride through the streets until he found someone friendly enough and they would start a conversation. Most of these ended spending time with locals. Whether it was playing an improvised rugby game with teens on a beach, cooking with the natives or dancing quite clumsily to the rhythm of their traditional music. And Sherlock joined them around the bonfire as he learned the typical steps of the dances. At night they were offered a free place to sleep. In those quiet and peaceful moments, Sherlock took the opportunity to make John laugh and sleep with a smile on his face. He would watch him sleep until his eyelids were heavy and his mind drifted away to the darkness.

Today however, wasn't one of those days. He knew that John, just like him, needed time off with people to recharge and decided for himself that a walk was in order. When John informed him of this, Sherlock agreed. But he had not been expecting to climb. It was no problem for the man. But the intense heat tired him quickly and the slight headache was enough to make him stumble. To make things worse, they were now sitting on the ground, under an improvised shelter John built out of plants and sticks to protect themselves from the rain. Going nowhere.

And John was mad.

Sherlock looked at John once again. The wall between them had lowered. John's shoulder was still stiff but it seemed the soldier wasn't paying any attention to the physical world. His eyes were far gone. And so was Sherlock when he looked at them. In many instances his eyes appeared to be grey, when it was sunny and the lights were brightly on his face. Other times, when it was dimly lit, his eyes turned to be blue of shade. Varying on different blues. Sometimes a dark blue as the deep ocean. Sometimes a blue as light as the Samoan beaches. Right now, however, he saw something different. The outside part of his irises was a mixture of grey and blue. Yet the ring around his pupils was adorned in brown with little specks of gold here and there. They were a case Sherlock couldn't find an answer to. There must be a name for it, but he realised he didn't want to categorize John's eyes. Their complexity reflected the man's personality and knew that even though he was ordinary in many cases, he was extraordinary in many others. Just like the art of colours in his eyes. 

 

"You're shivering", the soft voice of John brought him back to reality. Sherlock looked down at his form and found that he was indeed shivering. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he could hear the faint chattering of his own teeth. "God, I have nothing to cover you up with". John had stood up a moment to fetch for his backpack and was looking into it. 

"It'll get wet either way", Sherlock managed to say through his trembling lips. "I'm fine. I can hold on until the rain stops". 

"Take your shoes off", John ordered and Sherlock didn't question him. Suddenly very aware of what might happen to his feet if they were stuck in his shoes with water. They both took them off. John was already moving to the driest place of the shelter when his hand touched Sherlock's arm and his widened like saucers. 

"You're burning, come here", he could hear the distress in his voice. 

John practically dragged him to the driest spot and helped Sherlock out of his clothes. He proceeded to give him his bottle of water. 

"It's yours", Sherlock murmured. 

"We have plenty of water", he said. "And that is my last concern right now. No, Alex. Don't try and cover yourself, we need to regulate the temperature and give you fluids. Drink".

Sherlock curled into a ball on the dirty soaked soil. Shivering and bracing himself against the cold wind. His side was covered in mud and soon he realised how ridiculous he must look. The caveman look was now completed, he thought to himself. He cursed his dreads, because once wet, they would take a long time to dry off. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sound of the rain take him to a dreamless land in his mind. 

By the time he woke up, the sun was out. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the light before processing where he was. The first thing he noticed was the vast green of land in front of him. The second was the sound of water running somewhere distant and a the distinctive sound of pencil on paper. It took him a turn of his head to realise his head was on John's lap, which had a small drawing pad one balanced in the stretched fingers of his hand- one he hadn't see yet, and was intently drawing. Sherlock watched him from this new angle. John's hair was swaying with the wind, his eyes focused and the tip of his tongue darted out for small moment. Moistening his lips. When John realised he was awake, he gave him a small smile and didn't say anything. 

"Is my fever down?", he asked, voice rough. 

"Yes, you slept it off, apparently", John replied without taking his eyes of the pad. 

"How much did I sleep?".

"Nine hours", this time he put the pad down and looked at him. "Feeling better?"

Sherlock nodded. It was time, he knew. It was the perfect time of telling him everything. John wanted to know why, right? He had said so. But he didn't say he wanted to go back to England and to him. He'd said the contrary. He said no. Besides, Sherlock saw, lived 10 days with him in this new lifestyle of him. He was _happy._ He saw it in his eyes every time he was out. The twinkle, the spark that would make him glow with happiness every time he tasted something new, experienced extraordinary or unusual things. Things he's never done before. Surrounded by people with stories, and he'd listened to them all. Just like he listened to him when they were friends. John always listened, even though he rarely understood what he was talking about. John liked stories and these people were offering them to him. He wanted to say the words that have been burning in his core for the past days. To get up and scream them at the top of his lungs from this very mountain. To finally chase his happiness like a bird set free. The only problem was that his happiness was in part John's happiness. And as the days passed, the idea of breaking John's bubble of happiness by suddenly appearing became more difficult to accept. 

"Tell me something", the words came out of him. 

John stopped mid drawing and looked at him, head still on his lap. 

"Like what?", John asked carefully. 

"Narrate what you're drawing to me", he dropped his American accent just this one. Because it was too much. His skin was aching. His mind was racing. His _heart_ was itching for the real relationship he had with John. And it was all in his voice. A whisper, showing his fear in the form of sound. To wake up from this bad dream because it was an horrible idea. Lying to John. But he would do it. Just for the sake of his happiness. Because it wasn't about his protection anymore. It was about making John happy. The smile John gave him- wide and genuine, making his eyes wrinkle, did nothing to make this better. 

"I'm drawing you", he said as he continued to draw. 

"Why?"

"Because I want to remember why I end up soaked in a mountain with a semi naked guy I met at the airport".

"It'll be quite a story".

"Yes", he said. "Especially given how stubborn he is". 

They both laughed and Sherlock remembered he was only in his pants. He cleaned the mud off his body and dressed up. He sat next to John and committed to memory his hands from they way he held his pen to the way they traveled through the paper. The sound of John's breathing and scent. And finally, the sound of his voice as he explained the techniques he used. 

_Thank you, John._

\-------------------------------------------

The ride to the airport was quiet. They had both came late last night and John only had 3 hours of sleep and wasn't feeling so good. Sherlock didn't trust his tongue and said nothing, afraid he might start to babble. He knew that as soon as he was back, everything would be like before. Gray. Dull. Boring. He would think about these last days with John and would not talk for days. Therefore he contacted Mycroft, to tell him he was going back. And partly for his brother to give him something to work on. Which he did. 

It was better this way, he reminded himself. 

They arrived at the airport. John accompanied him to check-in, free of luggage, they made their way to a coffee shop and ate breakfast. For a brief moment they talked about the future plans of both. John said he would go back to New Zealand to work again and his next destination would be the American continent. More likely the South part of the continent. Argentina would be a great place, John told him. But he wouldn't be against Brazil or Ecuador. As long as there delicious food, he would follow. He asked Sherlock and he invented some lie. When it was time to go they stood in front of each other, looking at each other's eyes.

"I am glad you were hit by a car", John said jokingly.

"So am I, Doctor. Thank you for your hospitality", and he stretched his hand. John took it in his warm hand. "Godspeed, Peter".

John nodded.

Sherlock understood his decision. It would always be like this. John came first. And if that meant to let him go, then so be it. He looked at John one last time. Properly looked at. From his hair to his shoes. _John._ Knowing that this was the last time, he closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. Maybe if he blinked enough he would wake up back in 2010. When he'd met John. With the chance of doing everything alright and to make sure not to loose John's confidence. To be worth of the bravest, kindest and wisest human being he'd ever known. Chin up and papers in hand he turned and started to walk away. But then John said something. If this was a joke, it was a really bad one. Maybe his mind was playing with him. Again. No there was no way. No, it couldn't be real. But it was.

Because John said: _"Thank you, Sherlock"._

Loud. 

And clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is on fire.


	10. Chapter 10

His mind must be playing tricks on him because it was absolutely impossible for the man lying next to him to be Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Well, not exactly impossible since said person faked his death in front of him. No, it couldn't be him. He wanted him out. Why on earth is he here? 

Calm.

Down. 

Breathe. 

Exhale. 

Conclusion: It can not be him. 

Well, of course it couldn't be him! Look at the hair, the beard, the style and for fuck's sake at his skin colour. John tried hard to convince himself. But the closer he looked at the body, to the details and the story on the skin, he realised it was an absolute nightmare. Because it was him. That, or his mind was playing some kind of sick joke on him, which was not funny. John's feet were covered in mud because he'd been pacing all along under the mad sky. His clothes were like a second skin on his body and he felt hot even though the wind was freezing. But God help him, he was hot in rage and needed to break something. He wanted to take Sherlock by the throat and watch his life come out of him but stop just in time for him not to die. To give him a physical taste of what those first years did with him. That sick bastard. The longer he looked at Sherlock, the more he wanted to kill him and fuck the consequences. There were so many things running through his mind but one was he certain about, he wasn't an ungrateful person and would certainly not kill the person that once saved him. Instead he packed his things and made his way downhill. 

At the beginning he was possessed with rage. First, Sherlock obliterated their friendship, kicked him out of his motherland, left him absolutely miserable and now he's here. But not as Sherlock, as an "Alex". And hell, how he managed to play the part. He had John fooled. But as he declined, his rage was appeased. Replaced instead with questions unanswered. Why did he come back? Why now? What is he looking for exactly if he hasn't presented himself?

He raised his eyes to the sky. It stopped raining and he was a couple of kilometers from the main road, he could see it from where he was standing. Bright from the water and reflecting the sunlight, there was no mistaking it. His eyes followed the source of light again, the sun shinning already around the light blue sky. There were still some light grey clouds around but the sun was already hot against his skin. He took a look around, lost in the landscape. Everything was bright at that moment. From the leaves of the trees to the muddy dirt under his toes. The music of the drops falling from the trees and the water running downhill, made him forget for a second what he was doing there alone. And then he remembered exactly what he was doing. He was leaving Sherlock behind while he was burning hot with fever last time he checked. No water, no food. Not that he cared 7 years ago, but things might have changed. Besides his body needed fluids now. Leaving his bad mood behind, John started climbing again. Scolding himself for leaving a living ill person in the mountains. What was he thinking? John considered his previous act equally bad as killing him.

By the time he got there, Sherlock was still asleep. John was grateful for this because he wouldn't know how to reply when Sherlock enquired the reasons he left him. He knelt down Sherlock and checked him. His fever was still high, but definitely lower than last time. He sat some meters away from him and looked properly at Sherlock's sleeping form. He was on his side, arms bracing himself and legs slight bent at the knees. He wasn't shivering anymore. Half his body was covered in mud. Slowly, he approached. Now he could see Sherlock better. The scars on his back were visible, John wondered if they were hurting. Sherlock had always been private about them, he only saw them twice but John was certain they weren't there before he dismantled Moriarty's web. Sherlock suffered because of him. As mad as he was with the detective at that moment, he couldn't bring himself to hate what he'd done before his last request. His eyes traveled to the scar on his arm when he was stabbed with a pocket knife. It was the same shape and lenght he remembered. The scar on his thigh when a bullet touched him, almost hitting him. The ones he had on both his hands from chemicals, John attended hundreds of times. And the definitive proof of his identity: the bullet scar Mary had put there. Just where he remembered it being.

It was Sherlock. No doubt. 

His mind started to race again. Sherlock. Here. Undercover. Why? Was he checking on him? Had he been doing this all this time? He knew Sherlock was a great stalker, but to this degree? He couldn't rule it out, Sherlock was capable of anything. Or did he want John to come back? Maybe. But why the disguise? Surely Sherlock would simply come as himself and make the proposition. But he hadn't done that. Why was it then? Though he did disguise himself as waiter the first because he thought it was funny. But this was going to long, wasn't it? This was not the kind of joke Sherlock would invest time in. He sat there staring at the afternoon sun and thought about it. After what seemed like hours, John realise his friend was moving and trying to change position. Part of his face landed on a muddy surface and John lifted his head and accommodated on a piece of clothing. But Sherlock was stubborn even in his sleep and went back to the muddy surface. Then John took his head and placed it on his lap. He saw the detective angling his head better and he hummed contently once he found the perfect position. Watching the detective like this made John forget about the Alex he was playing. It was just Sherlock. His friend. Mad brilliant friend, Sherlock. And just this time he allowed himself to be selfish, he wasn't going to tell Sherlock he knew when he was spending quality time with him. He might go. So he didn't tell him for the next 3 days. Until he said _"Thank you, Sherlock"_ and the detective froze in place for what seemed like years.

Truthfully, he meant those words. Coming here and spent the entire time with him proved the detective was lying about his reasons. And he'd enjoyed spending time with Sherlock disguised as Alex. Finally doing normal things like normal friends do. Things they had never done because Sherlock was either working or sulking back when they were in London. Even though he was disguised, John noticed he was also enjoying the things they've been doing. Not only did his knowledge on history expanded, but he saw him various times taking samples of plants and exchanging knowledge with others. It was good. But most importantly he made him feel at home, again. Since the beginning. That day at the boat when they got drunk. It felt familiar. Something he was missing and craving over the past year with someone else.

But also for the things he'd done in the past before this dreadful business separated them. For the many times Sherlock considered him. Saved him. For all of that, thank you.

But God he was still mad. Sherlock was leaving him. AGAIN. Whit no explanation whatsoever. And the fact Sherlock's back was facing him instead of his face didn't help his mood.

"It is you, then", he said dryly.

Sherlock didn't even move for some seconds. When he did, he turned around carefully. He was caught. Confusion all over his features. It was all John needed to answer all his questions. He was _really_ planning to go, then. Still lying to him with no intention to _at least_ explain him what happened, after he asked him to. John couldn't believe this. He had given him time to explain himself but he was leaving without properly facing him. 

"Erm, John", he stammered, looking for the words. "I'm sorry".

He wasn't. John knew, deep in his heart he wasn't. If he was he wouldn't have lied so long. It was all he could take at that moment. John's feelings meant nothing to the detective.

"Just go. You were planning to anyways", he spat the words, turned around and walked away to the car and left Sherlock standing dumbfounded.  
\------------------

It took John two days to come back to the flat. Sherlock hadn't heard him opening the door, cooking and watch some tv. He noticed John's presence when the hard slam of the bedroom door woke him up from his dream. Untangling himself from John's sheets and pillow, he quickly ran after him.

"John, wait!"

John was already on the porch, walking quickly and hard the way only a man with a goal could muster. What the goal was, Sherlock wasn't certain but it seemed to be to get as much distance from the detective. Sherlock quickly ran the steps separating them and spun John around by his shoulder so he was looking at him.

"John, don't g-", he was abruptly stopped by John's fist to his stomach.

"I might be deserving that", he said out of breath as he doubled from the pain. Then John's knee hit his face with such force it made him fall to the grass. Sherlock doubled in pain on floor, watching as John's feet became tinier and tinier as he walked away from him. Sherlock wasn't letting go so easily. He stood and walked quickly behind John, hoping to catch up with him. But John was a stubborn man and was walking faster. Sherlock wouldn't catch up.

"I'm sorry, John!", he screamed at the top of his lungs. John stopped. Sherlock breathed in again before continuing. "It was selfish to lie to you John. But I am truly sorry".

"I know. I forgive you", John's reply came fast. Sherlock, confused for a moment didn't think it would be this easy.

"Seriously?", he had to be sure.

"Noh!", said John's angry voice. "You crossed too many lines now".

With renewed energies, the detective ran after John and stopped in front of him. But was met by another of John's fists.

"If you want to know the truth why are you running, John? I'll explain everything", Sherlock begged to the figure in front of him. John closed his eyes and took deep breathes, clearly struggling to come to terms with this situation.

"I really don't want to see you, Sherlock", was his response before walking away.

And this time, Sherlock let him go. Fine, he didn't want to see him. That was no problem. He hadn't say anything about hearing him. 20 minutes later, Sherlock had all the music equipment on the samoan house prepared and the mic was in his head.

"Mycroft is fat", he said to test the sound and was pleased with the volume. John was far away. He suspected him to be in the beach after the dock, which really wasn't far, and some mental calculations told him he would be able to hear him.

"So this is working", he started lamely. He nodded at nothing in particular and continued. "Alright. Erm. How do I start? Ahem", the only reply Sherlock received was the whistling of the wind. He took another breath. "John I know you're somewhere here listening. You don't want to see me? Fine. I'm talking to you instead", he paused. Not sure how to continue. "You surely have questions, but I think starting from the Mortimer's case to what I've been doing these 7 years and most importantly these last months, might help you understand the decisions I've taken. Before you were shot, Mortimer talked to me on the phone. He told me _explicitly_ how he was going to torture you. John, you know better than most people how it infuriates me to be surrounded by stupid humans. Mortimer was smart but his men weren't, so I point out everything wrong in hope to make him take a step back and reconsider his plans. Instead he shot you", slowly he exhale controlling himself. "If you had died that day, your death would have been in my hands for putting you in such position, John. And I wouldn't let that happen. It was just a matter of time before someone finally killed you just to get to me. John, you're my _friend_ , you can believe what you want but your safety is more important for me than anything else. Or was".

Sherlock was lost in his mind he hadn't noticed he started walking around.

"I saw you everywhere in London, I couldn't take it anymore so I moved to Belfast. Spend horrible 5 years. I'm not sure what I've been doing. Until recently, I discovered the box you left and your letter and I realised how badly I wanted my blogger back to chase criminals, piss Mycroft off, to sulk to and have dinner with. And apparently I wasn't the only one. I came back to go home together. But, erm, ugh", he huffed a laugh. "My stomach is doing funny things, John", he stopped as he thought about the spark in his eyes and the genuine smiles he shared with everyone. "I saw you truly happy here. I didn't want to force you to come back. You deserve better than me. Harry pointed me out coming back was a terrible idea, I agree now with her. If anything my past actions don't speak highly of me, now. Do they? But I realised you were happier here, John. And if it made you happy I would step back and let you live the way you see best fit", Sherlock looked for other words, trying to think of what he'd forgotten. But nothing came to mind. "I'll be gone in the next flight, John". 

He was putting the mic down but remembered he had to say something before it was too late. "One more thing before I go, John", he started slowly afraid of his friends reactions to the words he was about to say. "I am not looking for your forgiveness. If anything I am not worthy of such act, specially coming from you. But know that I owe you a thousand apologies for the damage I've brought to you and I wish to repay for every scar I've put both on your skin and heart. So there's that". This time he meant them. He bared his thoughts to John, once and for all. Tired of the lies and hiding and disguising and avoiding. John deserved an explanation. And above all, an apology. A sincere apology. He stood there, staring at the void hoping for a certain voice. But nothing came. After some minutes, he realised John wasn't coming. What did he expect? For the doctor to come running to his arms and everything would be fine? How naive of his part. Sherlock left the Samoan house and walked to the house with slow steps, trying to postpone his arrival at the modern house. Because once he was in there, reality would hit him and he would have to accept his destiny. 

That night Sherlock lay on John's bed again, thinking of John and everything he could have done in the past to completely avoid an outcome like this. He cursed his arrogance, pride and at the same time his selfless side for everything. He wished to have never met John. Dying from an overdose would be simpler and easier than slowly decaying from this emotional state he was in. It was 7 in the morning when he called the airline and booked a ticket back to England, he was leaving in the afternoon. He spend some time staring at the window hoping for John to arrive. The time for him to go was getting closer, so he went to the bathroom to take a shower. 

He stripped down and looked himself at the mirror. His skin colour was several shades lighter and would be completely gone in two to four days. He had some terrible eye bags and his featured were becoming sharper by the lack of food the past days. His lips were cracked too and he remember how low his water intake was the last days. He was not able to see the man in front of the mirror, because he, himself couldn't recognise him. He went under the shower and the water simply ran through his body, lost for a moment in the comfort the water gave him. Then there were two uncertain knocks on the door. 

"Sherlock is that you?", John asked from the other side. How dare he to ask such stupid question? Sherlock fought the urge to snap back a sarcastic comment and said "Yes" instead. There was no reply from the other side from some moments. And Sherlock didn't hear him walking away. _For God's sakes John say something._ Or was it Sherlock's turn to speak? 

"You said my safety _was_ your priority. What is it now? Your priority".

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Whatever makes you happy". Short and simple. Because that was the truth. Sherlock's heart was beating faster and faster. His stomach seemed to have dropped and made a hole on the floor under him. What was John thinking? Why was there a door between them? Why hadn't he say a word in the 163 seconds he was behind that goddamn door?

"Let's go home", John's voice was low but firm. "Take me back home, Sherlock". 

Sherlock's heart officially stopped beating. But the big genuine smile that slowly made its way on his face, brought him back alive. And for the first time, Sherlock felt completely free.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos/ comments so far! 
> 
> New chapter!

If someone were to see John Hamish Watson's expression while boarding the plane, one would think he was definitely pissed. He hadn't spoken a word with Sherlock since he asked him for the keys of the flat 3 hours ago. Or about anything Sherlock said before. What was he supposed to say either way? Sherlock must have sense his state of mind, because he too hadn't say a word or looked at him. It was so obvious, even the stewardess treated him with extra care. John didn't need any special treatment, if he was honest.

The silence continue throughout the entire journey back to London. Sherlock opened his mouth a few times to say something, John noticed. However no sound came from him. There was definitely a wall neither of them knew how to break. How was John supposed to break it? Sherlock apparently thought talking about it would do if his attempts to start a conversation were something to go by. But this was more than words. Most of the words John remember were lies and if there was something he always knew to trust were actions.

When they came out of the airport, a suited man came to them immediately.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson", he nodded at both of them. "There's a car waiting for you".

"How I missed your brother's warm welcomes".

"Again interfering".

The both of them said at the same time. John watched the entire time throughout the window to what was once his home. The streets, buildings, people walking on the streets. It was the same but with some additions here and there. Something started to built in his heart that made his heart jump. A smile crossed his features, the feeling of it alien but welcomed either way. He was back in the city who saw him grow. The noise, dark clouds, chilly and contaminated air where everyone around the world came to chase their own luck. His home.

The car stopped and both of them get off. Sherlock walked decisively to the modern building and opened the door without any hesitation, John following him. To John's surprise it wasn't an empty building or an office but they were in the middle of a living room.

"What is this place?"

"One of Mycroft's flats in the city", the detective answer as he melted in the chair in front of the fireplace. "He's in Korea attending to some inane political issue".

"Why aren't we going to Baker street if he's not coming?", he asked as he walked in.

"I was living in Belfast, John", was the answer he received. He wanted to inquire more, but wasn't sure. John made its way to the armchair next to it and left his suitcase at the entry. They sat in silence, watching the flames dance around and change colours. There was the occasional horn of the car, creak of the wood and their breathing to hear. Apart from that it was only silence. The both of them spend 30 minutes quiet, each one lost in their head and afraid to talk first but at the end it was John who couldn't take it anymore.

"You're whiter", Sherlock turned to see at his skin. His face showed he suddenly remembered something.

"I need to get rid of all these hair. It's so... ticklish", he said as he took a dread in his hair to examine. "I don't know how you managed with your moustache, I'm dying with this beard".

John looked at him offended. "I thought my moustache was cool".

Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing John's statement. "If you were looking to be a granddad".

"My hair is completely grey, Sherlock. And I don't look like a granddad".

"Right", he looked at John. "You look mature", he gave him a smile.

John was slightly confused at his comment. "Is that a compliment?"

"Are you fishing for one?", Sherlock asked back.

"Nope".

Sherlock hummed and looked back at the fireplace. John heard Sherlock's phone beeped. The detective caught a glance at the text and put it back in his pocket. Then it beeped again. And some other four times before Sherlock fished it out of his pocket and send a message. He stood up and came to stand in front of John's chair.

"Dinner?", he asked. John wasn't particularly hungry but there was something in the detective eyes that were pleading. In the dim light of the room his eyes were dark gray with a hint of sorrow in them. For a moment he saw his own look when he came back from Afghanistan reflected in his friend's features. And realised he wouldn't say no, because he couldn't.

"Yeah", he said softly. Sherlock was still standing in front of him, looking a bit unsure of what to do. "Yeah, let's go", he said firmer and this seemed to get Sherlock back to the moment. The detective smiled again.

"I need to shave, John. I'm afraid it'll take awhile. Take whichever room you like".

John saw the detective run upstairs in his khaki shorts and palm trees tshirt. His long hair moving behind him. He looked ridiculous. Thank god, he'd taken pictures. A ridiculous Sherlock or one without his suit was a rare situation and often, a memorable one.

John started to explore the house. he supposed Mycroft didn't used it often because the fridge was empty. There were three bedrooms and he choose the one with the most comfortable bed and changed to some fresh and more warm clothes, he went downstairs to wait for Sherlock, but a box lying on the bed from the bedroom next to his made him stopped. Making sure Sherlock was still in the bathroom, he quickly entered the room and entered the combination of the lock. This time, his dog tags were missing.

\----------------------------- 

Once they were sitting in the Argentinian restaurant it was familiar yet odd at the same time. Eating with Sherlock was familiar given that they did it many times in the past. But odd because they had both changed. And that Sherlock's hair was now really short. The restaurant was crowded, the noise and music at the background making it almost impossible to talk. Thus deciding not to. Sherlock avoided his eyes and looked everywhere but John. When the food arrived, he kept his eyes on the plate and didn't touch it for at least three minutes until John asked him if he was hungry at all. Sherlock seemed to have gone lost in his mind and was just returning from a deep thought. His eyes met John's and he thought he saw something close to distress before smiling at him and started eating as if nothing happened. Dinner went in silence and as time passed John's hand started to sweat. Eager and afraid at the same time to ask Sherlock a lot of questions but controlled himself.

They decided to go back walking. The night was relatively cold but not something he wasn't used. He realised how strange the cold air was against his cheeks and his hands started to tremble even though they were secured in the pockets of his coat. He ignored the feeling and set himself to observe his city. However the freezing of his hands was stronger than the bless in his chest and Sherlock offered his gloves to John.

"I'm fine", he said.

They walked for a couple of minutes, enjoying the familiar look of the busy London's streets. Every once in a while John would stop and take a closer look to spot the changes or simply revive a memory. Sherlock wouldn't say a word and let John free to be lost in his mind. As they made their way to the flat, the trembling grew stronger, his fingers were ice cold and it wasn't pleasant in anyway. It must have been really bad because Sherlock took him by the arm, stopping him.

"Sherlock, what th-"

"You're incredibly stubborn, John".

The detective had John's hands between his, gently rubbing them. John was going to get free of his grip but the detective held his wrists and gave John a strict look before fishing his gloves from his pocket and put them on John. With a last squeeze he let them go.

"There you go", the detective said as he resumed walking. John stared at his figure for a moment, dumbstruck by this action and quickly followed behind.

John didn't pay more attention to his surroundings, instead his eyes were fixed on Sherlock. There was something strange about him tonight but something stopped him from asking. Whether it was fear or shyness, he didn't know. But he knew it was probably something personal, one the man would come to terms with. So he let it go.

When they got to the flat, they said goodnight and went to their respective rooms. John couldn't fall asleep. The thoughts of his actions and the strangeness of the past 4 days kept him up. Surely, there was something different about his friend. But could something be different with him too? The time they spent in the company of the other today felt forced and unnatural. John doubted it would ever be the same. Could they make it work?

He sighed and turned around in his bed. His mind kept racing and was unable to pin them down, in a burst of desperation, he threw his bed sheets aside, wrapped himself in a dressing gown and went outside to the balcony with his sketchbook. It was certainly much colder and he had less clothes on but it wasn't something he couldn't take, he tried to convince himself. With a new goal to ignore the cold, he set himself and started sketching the city's landscape. He sketched several pages from different angles and found his inner voice quiet. It was a pleasant silence but he couldn't draw anymore because his hands started to tremble.

"You're more stubborn than I remember", said the unmistakable voice of Sherlock making John jump and break his pencil in two.

"God, you'll kill me", John turned around to find Sherlock on the balcony to his right smiling.

"No. But the cold will if you don't keep yourself warm".

"I'm perfectly fine", he said defensively. Sherlock hummed. The following silence stretched for some moments until Sherlock broke it.

"Teach me".

John frowned at him, surprised by Sherlock's request.

"You mean drawing?"

"Of course", Sherlock whispered as both his legs took hold of the fence and lifted his body so he was standing on the fence.

"What the hell are you doi-"

"Coming", Sherlock interrupted him.

"You're gonna fall", he tried to talk some sense into him as the distance between the two balconies was too far for him to reach. "You know there's actually a-"

But Sherlock wasn't listening to him and he jumped, his toes landed on the edge and his hands grabbed the fence tightly.

"Door", he finished.

Sherlock jumped over the fence balancing his weight on his arms and landed on John's balcony. John looked bewildered at him and remembered how dangerously amusing he could be with his actions. At that moment, they forgot everything that happened the last years and they just laughed like schoolboys for no good reason.

"You're mad", he said.

Sherlock shrugged.

"It was faster".

"So, do you have any experience with this?", he asked once they were both done with laughing.

"Apart from drawing molecular structures, I'm afraid not".

They went inside to the warm room of John's. They sat next to each other on the floor, each with sketchbook and pencil in hand. John explained basic concepts such as the pencils technicalities and shadowing and they practiced with basic forms. Sherlock, brilliant as ever caught on quickly. John saw his expression change from amused to concentrated as they went further and their voices gradually shut down as John gave him yet another exercise. He saw how Sherlock concentrated fully on what he was doing, at first his movements were hesitating but grew more confident as he practiced.

"Who taught you?", Sherlock asked slowly. John noticed the sunlight creeping through the curtains and couldn't believe they spent the entire day awake. At that moment he felt tired and yawned.

"I was kinda okay when I was young. But I met someone in China who taught me better".

The detective stopped drawing and his expression was unreadable.

"John", he said ever so slightly, questioning.

"Hmm".

"I will stop taking cases".

John felt suddenly very awake. He blinked a couple of times trying to process what Sherlock just said. He'd heard correctly.

"No, Sherlock", he said in disbelief. "You can't do that. You like what you do. You live for it. Sherlock, what are you saying? This makes no sen-"

"Stop babbling, John".

"I'm not babbling. I'm serious. You were born to chase criminals, insult the police and crack cases. God, you do that to keep yourself from getting bored. What are you gonna do? Is this because of what happened? Is this because of me? Look, you don't need to worry, you love being a detective. Either way we're going to die. I can't imagine-"

"John, stop!"

Everything was suddenly silenced and the detective took the opportunity to continue.

"I've taken my decision. I will stop working and you will not change my mind, John. It's something I've been thinking for a few years now. Not everything goes around you, you know. I also have my life to worry about which is by far a more important matter to solve now".

John's eyes were fixed on him, his mouth slightly opened in disbelief. There was no sign of regret in Sherlock's face.

"God, I knew it was a bad decision", with those words he got up and walked decisively to his briefcase.

"John".

"No I don't want to hear a word. Everything that comes out of your mouth is either complicated or a lie. Truthfully, I have time for none. And since you've just throw the little we had to hell, I might as well go next".

John managed to put some jeans and a jacket over his shirt. Sherlock just sat there on the floor staring wide eyes at John and it momentarily stabbed him in the heart watching when Sherlock went offline in shock. So lost and confused of what John was doing. To see the sentiment -or better put, the lack of sentiment in his expression that showed his sentiment made him want to reconsidered his actions. Putting the thought aside he left the room without a word.

\---------------------------------- 

It had been 2 days since he last saw Sherlock. He'd texted him but no reply came back. He would go back, he was sure. But right now, things weren't stable. He still doubted Sherlock. And he on the side wasn't making things better by his attitude. He basically ignored him the entire day before dropping that bombshell the next day. Why was he doing that? Deep down, John didn't want to destroy Sherlock's life by being the very reason he couldn't perform his beloved work. That would mean to take what the detective considered his marriage and John, as mad as he still was with him, couldn't bring himself to take the detective's world down.

He still wasn't sure about Sherlock's reason. The speech last week would have been very touching if he still believed in Sherlock. But now he heard carefully, afraid of being lied again. The reason he came back weren't Sherlock's words, it were his actions. Sherlock came back, even after 7 years and his rather nasty words to him last time. And he also bent John's will to talk to him. But that wasn't enough. Those two weeks spent with Sherlock in Samoa made him remember of how funny and considerate the man could be. Sherlock hadn't change in that aspect. If he was being honest, he missed being with him. There were no need for words because he already knew everything of importance and that gave them time to do stuff. And Sherlock never pushed. In their short vacations he saw another side of Sherlock. He made questions, something he's never done before because he already knew what John was thinking. It was clear Sherlock wasn't sure of him the same way John wasn't sure of him. It showed uncertainty of his part and John noticed how much Sherlock had changed.

But what made him take the final decision was when Sherlock was showering. He entered his room and found his old box. Quickly, he opened it but nothing he left was there except his dog tags. They were instead replaced by a bunch of newspaper articles. Each one of them about Mortimer and his death. The killer was never caught and no one had any idea. At last there were pictures of his body, a shot right in his chest just where John was shot. The same bullet and the same handgun he was shot with. It couldn't be a coincidence. He knew it was Sherlock's work. Sherlock wasn't killer, he preferred to play with his mind. The only time he knew his friend had killed someone was to protect him. Unlike popular belief, Sherlock didn't have a huge fascination for killing and John understood this work was as personal as Sherlock could get with murdering someone. And that did it. His actions never lied. And this one screamed his intentions. That's why he came back.

But one thing was believing in his actions and another believing in his words.

Of course Sherlock was out of his depth when dealing with this sort of stuff. Words never came good to him when the situation between them was so fragile and emotionally charged. And he often said the wrong things. John knew he didn't mean it to say those words. He blamed himself for believing his last words. It was also his fault for bursting out like he did. Which he now regret. The platform they were standing wasn't stable and any wind would throw them over. They needed space and time to thoroughly think about them because they simply jumped without any plan or idea on how to proceed.

Spending these two days with Harry was beginning to tire him. He was happy to see Harry sober with a stable but his sister chatted all the time and called everybody to celebrate John's return. Which he was glad but the sudden attention overwhelmed him and made him even more tired. The third day, he came back to Mycroft's flat and realised Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. When the night came, with no signs of him he started to worry. He thought he might be overreacting. Sherlock was grown man who could defend himself. But he also had many enemies. Another part of his brain told him Sherlock said he wasn't taking any cases, which shouldn't be a problem. Why hasn't he return? Why wasn't he responding to his texts? Could it be he went to...

No, that couldn't be right.

Sherlock had relapses now and then, even if he doesn't admit so. It was usually when things like these happened. Sherlock's brain would be racing miles an hour, of course he would go and do something of the sort. Guilt sank down his stomach, he should have never let Sherlock. Realising the gravity of the situation he picked his coat and made his way to the door. A police car was standing just outside the door and a familiar silver haired man came out of it.

"John!", greeted Lestrade rapidly walking to him.

"Greg", he smiled at him.

"Glad to see you around, but I have no time to catch up. Is Sherlock in there?"

"No", he frowned as he saw Greg's concerned face. "Why?"

"It's Mycroft. There's going to be an attempt to take his life and other politicians. Sherlock asked for back up but there has been nothing over two hours, the building has been evacuated and there's still no sign of attackers. I have no idea if his silence is good or bad".

"God", was the only thing John was capable of saying.

At that moment his phone beeped. A message from a blocked number and an address.

_221B Baker Street. ___

\-----------------------------

John lost no time in getting into the police car and leaving Greg behind as he drove as fast as the busy streets let him to his old flat. Unfortunately, some streets were apparently closed making the traffic go slower than normal days. Cursing, John left the car and ran the remaining trajectory afoot. There was only one thing in his mind and it was _SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock._

When he saw the old and familiar building in his sight he ran faster, almost breaking the door in desperation. He climbed the stairs and burst into the dusty flat. Sherlock was being manhandled to the bathroom by his throat. He tried to fight the enormous man in no vain, his face was flushed red, fruitlessly grabbing the man by the hair. Breathing in heavily he walked to the bathroom just to see Sherlock being drown in the bathtub and that was his breaking point. Rage invaded him. He heard the muffled cries of Sherlock, the bubbles of oxygen coming to the water's surface from Sherlock's lungs, the splashing of water caused by Sherlock's struggling movements and the grin of his attacker. The latter made him snap. And his hearing shut down. He took the man by the hair and hit his head against the edge of the tub, taking his advantage, he quickly turned the man around and took him by his throat, cutting his breathing. The man came back to his senses and tried to fight John. The doctor, however wasn't letting go of his throat and held it tighter. The man's face became redder and tried to get John's hands off him. His breathing was coming short and shallow and soon John felt the man go limb under his hands. John didn't let go, he simply watched the stone face covered in blood of the man who almost killed Sherlock.

After some moments, John came back from his fury. His breathing was heavy and his hearing came back slowly. He registered the panting of Sherlock and he looked up to find him sitting on the edge, soaked in water, breathing fast and his hands were grabbing the edge of the tub like it was the only thing preventing him from falling down.

"You could have called me", John said softly.

But those words were enough to lit fire in Sherlock's eyes.

 **_"Call you?",_** the detective gave him a heated glance. "Tell me, John. How am I supposed to take your words when the last thing I heard of you was go to hell and now you come here and tell me why I didn't call you? You're asking _me_ to make sense?", he laughs dry and maniacally. "For God's sake, John. Why do you always run? Is it that you're afraid of the truth? Or you don't want to hear it? I'm tired of dancing around this, John! I can't take it every time you go!"

"I can't take it either, Sherlock", he said under his breath but Sherlock didn't listen and kept going.

"I'm not strong and you keep leaving. I don't know what happens in your head now. I thought I knew what you wanted but apparently I don't. And I'm tired. But you're not helping because every time I say something wrong you just leave. This is difficult for me and you go. John Hamish Watson you. Work. On. My. Nerves." The detective was standing, looking furiously at John and talked as fast as a lightening.

"Sherlock you're the one that pushes me. You jumped out of a building and made me leave", John remarked.

"That was different".

"It's not different when you keep leaving me", John stood up.

"It is my fault, isn't it? I always leave, don't I? You know what? I don't care".

"Shame, because I do!"

"How am I supposed to know that?" At this point both of them were screaming face to face and pushing each other.

"I don't know! I just know!"

"God, John. You don't even know", Sherlock pushed John and he hit the wall.

"You just leaved to get yourself killed. It's hardly my fault".

"You're so short sighted", Sherlock came impossibly closer.

"Oh... Am I?"

"Yes. I need Mycroft for a relatively safe England and Mummy would be pissed".

"Since when do you care about England?"

"Since I obviously live here!"

"Yeah? I don't believe you. All you care about is the work", John spat to his face.

"You're wrong! You're always wrong!"

"Of course I'm always wrong. I'm not a genius or a high-functioning sociopath, why would I be right?"

"I don't know!"

"I don't know either!"

"I thought you weren't taking any cases." 

"I thought you were on your way to hell." 

"Fuck you, Sherlock." 

At this, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar and dragged him outside to the hallway until his back hit the wall. It always ended like this. Wrestling their fears and questions in their flat just to calm down. Sherlock was looming over him, his hands still in John's collar, he took this moment to push against Sherlock's chest, effectively separating them and taking him by his legs making him loose balance and fall to the floor. The detective managed to grabbed John by his shoulders and he landed on him. The adrenaline made him oblivious to the impact and Sherlock immediately turned them over so he was on top. But the victory was short as John managed to get up, leaving Sherlock on the floor. Before he could regain balance, Sherlock took John's feet and made him fall again, hitting the floor hard. They spent the next two minutes tackling, wrestling and grabbing each other's hair until John's head almost landed on the edge of a step. Causing the both of them to stop and lay on the floor.

"That was stupid", Sherlock said softly between breaths.

"You mean, we're stupid", John said with a smile. And Sherlock started laughing.

They lay next to each other as they caught their breath. After fights like these, everything went back to normal. He could't remember the reason they fought, or even if it was worth it. The only thing he knew was that he felt better and so did Sherlock judging by the stupid grin on his face. Sherlock's phone beeped, he fished it out of his pocket and read it. All John heard next was "Sixty seconds" and "Bomb" before Sherlock was grabbing him by the arm and leading them running downstairs and to the street. All sound was banished. John only had eyes for whatever was in front of him and all he felt was Sherlock's hand on his arm dragging him. Time seemed to slow down and with it came the thoughts that at least, if they die today, they would die together. And that would be infinitely better than just one of them dying. Because John needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed John. And God forbid they went through all the mourning again. They either lived or die. It didn't really mattered as long as Sherlock was beside him. He didn't hear the bomb going off. He knew because his body was thrown to the ground with unimaginable force and he found himself unable to move. Slowly his hearing came back, with it, his sense of touch. There were hands touching him everywhere and a distant voice screaming his name. He recognised the voice. Along with the screams of his names were the sirens and a lot of things falling to the ground. Nothing but the hands holding his face mattered. He slowly opened his eyes and was met with a brightly red sky, there was dust flying around but his eyes were focused on the panicked face of Sherlock. Which was staring at him with fear and desperation.

"I'm fine, Sherlock", were the only words he could think of to calm the detective down because it hurt him watching him like that. Sherlock was completely covered in grey dust, his hands were rough to the contact and was shaking a little.

"No, you don't know that!", he said in desperation.

John held both his wrists and the detective stopped in place, finally looking in John's eyes.

"I am, Sherlock", he said softly around the dust. His friend regarded him for a few seconds before falling next to him. John stared at the angry sky for some moments before leaning on his shoulders and properly looked at the damaged he was surrounded by. Streetlamps were blocking the streets, windows broken, the dust everywhere made it almost impossible to look further than ten meters. At the distant he could see the the red flames majestically demanding attention and he fell back to the ground.

"John?", his name was said in a whispered.

"Hmm?"

He waited for the voice to talk again. Instead, the rough hand took hold of his. John was momentarily taken aback by this action. He turned to stare at Sherlock. He was on his back, eyes closed, expression completely still. It would have been strange, but just then, the doctor caught a glimpse of a single tear making its way down his face to the ground. Cleaning the dust off Sherlock's face and revealing his now natural skin colour. He understood everything there. It was as clear as the tear. Words never came to them. So he didn't speak. He squeezed Sherlock's hand back and didn't let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're idiots.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, update. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine and mine only.

He was afraid of blinking. And walking. Of people in general too. Needles might be added. The doctors and nurses topped the list. In fact he was afraid of almost everything that could endangered John or his place next to him. After the explosion, Sherlock didn't lose his grip from John's hand until someone started screaming for a doctor. He dreaded the lack of physical contact, but no one was going to take him off his sight.

What he felt the most, however, was shock. They've held hands before, it wasn't something strange. Hugged too, which is a considered gesture of physical intimacy- in their case friendly intimacy. At that moment, both laying on the street, eyes closed, hearts beating faster than any particle of light, the two of them in the middle of chaos yet oddly calm- it was more than that. It was personal. And the fact John had participated made it even more. It wasn't just physical, it ran deep inside him, twisting his intestines and made his heart clench. Whatever it was, was enough to let one or two tears out. Not that he would admit loudly, but something cracked inside him when John let go. 

After John helped several people on the streets, paramedics and firefighters were around them. As much as John wanted to help, one of the paramedics noticed John's arm bleeding and was forced to be checked. Sherlock tried hard not to yell at them as they slowly but clearly painfully lifted John's arms. He wanted them to back off and not touch him at all, because watching the distressed and painful frown on John's face made him worry. The logical part of his brain told him it was necessary if he wanted a healthy John, so he endured the alien pain in his stomach as he observed John's face. It wasn't bad, to his relief. Just a large shred of glass that managed to scratch him and was bleeding a lot, even though it was only superficial. 

Some hours later, -Sherlock couldn't be bother how late it was-, they were back at Mycroft's flat, sitting on the table eating take away. Mainly John eating, Sherlock just stared at his food. They didn't talk but it wasn't awkward. John wasn't angry so he thought things were just fine. 

"There are no more terrorist trying to kill you, right?", John asked around mouthful of noodles. 

"No", he replied slowly, eyes still on his plate. John hummed. 

"Not hungry?", Sherlock lifted his head and saw him.

"No."

"Okay."

With that final word, John stood up, took both their plates and cleaned the dishes. Sherlock watched him as he did so, not even flinching away when John looked over his shoulder to him staring. Some minutes past, Sherlock wasn't really paying attention to what exactly his friend was doing, he merely observed the presence of the body he was deprived for the last 7 years. It was only when John put a cup of tea on the table, his face impossibly close, that he came back to reality. 

"Might as well get you hydrated. We were almost burned", John gave him a small closed smile and sat back down. 

Sherlock took a sip and placed it back down, staring at the liquid, looking for a sign.

"John", he said unsure. His brain was unable to think, yet he felt much. But couldn't say anything to make John understand. He wanted to demand him not to leave him. To stay by his side. To trust him. To laugh and chat and run. But none of those words came out of him. He looked back at John, who was staring back at him and he saw him. Truly saw him. He wasn't angry or sad. John had a small smile on his face, his eyes were sparkling and was comfortably sitting on the chair. He was transported back in time, in those first two years and the four after Mary, when John would stare at him the same way he was doing at the moment. John brought his walls down with fists some hours ago. It was only fair for him do to so too. 

"Thank you, John", he said low but firmly. John didn't seemed surprised by it as he would have been in the past by such confession. 

"That's what we do", he replied in his casual tone. "Save each other".  
\---------------------------------

John excused himself to his room after finishing his tea, but there was a voice screaming to him he might go. He debated with the voice, scolding it for such nonsense. John wouldn't go. He'd came back. there was no reason for him to go and he wasn't angry. John would not go. Except that the voice won the battle and he soon walked into John's bedroom and just stared at him. Stared his shinning hair, his form, his eyelids. Stared until the sun came up and kept staring every movement and stared until John's eyes started to flutter open and then, only then would he retreat. He would do the same every night and guard John's sleep. 

He went on without sleeping for other 5 days, not leaving John alone except for when he went to the bathroom, but even then he would keep his ears sharp to make sure everything was in order. Other than his fear of leaving, everything went just fine. Mornings were different this time, John insisted on getting out for breakfast. Sherlock knew he wanted to spent as much time in London as he himself wanted, so he didn't complaint. Slowly, but surely as he walked the streets next to John the Memory Palace that was once destroyed came to life again. The sky was brighter, the buildings restored and along with them the memories he failed to destroy completely. They would walk in silence, each in their own mind. But Sherlock was fine with that, they were together again. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. And it was all that mattered.

Sherlock told him about Mrs. Hudson, he'd been sad and a little taken aback by the news. He wished he hadn't. Only then did he leave John wander the city by his own. When he came back it wasn't a difficult leap to see he'd been to her grave. When John was away, Mycroft came without a word and sat in front of Sherlock. They stared at each other in silence. Mycroft's gut had gone bigger, his face had some wrinkles a fair amount for someone in his fifties and a stressful job but his style still prevailed. Mycroft was the first to break the silence.

"Glad to see your natural colour again".

"Is this how you tell me you've missed me?", he retorted casually playing with the strings of his violin.

"Is this how you imply you missed me?", Mycroft gave him a closed smile.

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe".

There was a short silence where Mycroft analysed his word, but right now he couldn't care less.

"You've grown softer, little brother."

"So have you judging by your gut."

"Sleep would do your face wonders, Sherlock".

"Botox would do magic on yours, Mycroft".

"The dreads were an awful touch."

"They served their purpose."

"He discovered you either way. It hardly did."

"He's back", Sherlock felt proud.

Mycroft glanced at him carefully. "But are you holding your doctor's wings?"

The conversation was suddenly over and soon Mycroft was putting a manila folder on the coffee table. "Last case's souvenir. For you to add to your collection".

Sherlock didn't say a word, processing his brother's words and their meaning. Mycroft stopped at the door for a moment. Sherlock watched his back curiously.

"Your efforts from last case are appreciated."

And he was gone. Mycroft's words in his head.  
\-------------------

Next day, John asked Sherlock why he wasn't sleeping. A question he ignored and John took it as a challenge. And apparently succeeded because the last he remembered was John trying to convince him about watching a movie. Now, he was drooling on the couch with a blanket around himself. It was dark and cold and John was nowhere around.

Quickly he jumped off the sofa and scanned the living room, kitchen, bedroom. Throwing doors and walking around loudly. Where was John? He shouldn't have fallen asleep! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How did this even happened? Was he hurt? Murdered? Kidnapped? Where?

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock turned to the voice behind him and faced John coming out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in hand.

"John", he mumbled. Not sure what to say.

"Heard you talking rather furiously."

"No, no, no. I'm fine. Perfect. Never have been." He said the fast.

"Okay", John eyed him suspiciously.

John was going back inside and Sherlock said desperately.

"Let's go out, John!"

"It's one in the morning, what could you possibly want to do?", he said from inside the bathroom. Feeling bold, Sherlock walked to the door and leaned against the frame watching John brushing his teeth.

"Don't you like to hear what the city tells you without cars and people blocking its voice?"

John stopped brushing, paralyzed and looked after some seconds at Sherlock. "You're becoming poetic", John said slowly around a mouthful of paste. "Are you mocking me?"

"Far from it."

John gave him a skeptical look before looking back at the mirror.

"Okay."

20 minutes later, they were already on the street walking. The night was cold and quiet. Desolated but from the occasional car and the random person. All in all, it was a quiet side of the city. His mind felt at ease knowing John was by his side.

They walked without talking, it seemed John liked the silence these days. Often lost in his mind, reading or simply drawing. This bothered him. John was by nature a very private person even if there was nothing to hide from him. But these new calm, silence waters made him think about his brother's words. And above all, questioned his actions.

"When was the last time you ate?", John asked out of nowhere.

"What?"

"Eat, Sherlock. Last time. You must be hungry because your stomach just growled. That, or there's a monster in your abdomen."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"By monster I meant beautiful and amazing worms in your system eating you slowly. Growing and getting bigger and bigger until you die", John's voice dead serious but his eyes gave away his amusement.

"As long as they are beautiful and amazing they can eat me."

"You're stubborn," John said. A smile crossing his face.

"Learned from the best", Sherlock winked at him. "I know this Chinese place not far from here. It must be open, if they haven't close the last years."

John agreed. Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on a park bench eating wok from their Chinese boxes.

"Its cold", John stated.

"Of course it is. Its two below freezing".

"Exactly! I like my food hot."

"Then stop eating."

John stared at the food in his lap thoughtfully.

"I have a better idea", the doctor informed. Sherlock continued eating, leaving John with his "better idea" because he was indeed hungry. Little did he know that this "better idea" from John involved him and his saucy noodles hit Sherlock straight in the face. He stood stone still, processing exactly what John had just done while his friend couldn't stop his maniac laugh at Sherlock's utter disbelief. It was only when Sherlock said "John. Hamish. Watson." That John stopped laughing and realised the problem he got himself into.

"No, God n-", all of Sherlock's sticky saucy noodles hit John's face before he could finish the sentence. It was Sherlock's turn to laugh. It didn't last long though. Because John threw the remaining of his noodles on Sherlock's dark curls. Noodles were hanging from his head and shoulders and his clothes were dirty from the Teriyaki sauce. John was in a similar state. Without losing any moment, Sherlock quickly grabbed a handful of noodles from his head and threw them at John, who jumped from his seat and attacked back. John's noodles were followed by the box and the remaining of its sauce, staining Sherlock's shirt.

"This shirt costed more", he threw some noodles to the running John. "than", again. "your" again. "shoes". Just when he said this last word, Sherlock realised he had no noodles left and John who'd been covering his face all this time from the attack saw his opportunity. Just as John realised this, Sherlock realised his disadvantage and in the blink of an eye, he was running away from the man with the noodles. 

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock ran faster and in spiral forms, taking advantage of his long legs as they crossed the park as if a devil was behind them. If anyone else were to see them, they would think they were overgrown children playing. Sherlock had never seen his friend with such speed, he was either getting old or John's physique had somehow improved the past seven years despite his age. He was too busy with the rush in his blood and the excitement of this chase that when he looked over his shoulder, John was nowhere to be seen. He came to a stop, panting, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. Where was he? When did John managed to sneak? Did something happen to him? At this last thought, Sherlock went immediately rigid and gained his posture. 

"John!"

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, a brute force tackled him to the ground by his side. Knocking him to the ground. Sherlock was taken by surprise and was trying to get the body off him but the laughter coming from his attacker was familiar and a wave of relief invaded his body. All of John's weight was on him, crushing his chest but its presence was more than welcome and brought a calm to the detective having his doctor form on him. At the moment, Sherlock thought what it would feel like to wrap his arms around him and crush them even more together. John balanced his weight on the palms of his hands and smiled down at Sherlock. He already missed the warm of the other body. John landed next to him with a goofy smile and it took no time for them to start giggling like schoolboys on the ground. It felt like their first case together after the chase. And Sherlock realised it was pretty much what they had been doing all along. Getting to know each other again. The giggles stopped and made space to the silence. Both man admired the stars of an early January under the cold sky. It was beautiful but something was missing. Sherlock closed his eyes and started humming. The beat he hasn't been capable of getting out of his head. Stuck like something in his teeth. He'd been playing with it all along. Whether John had a certain influence or not, Sherlock liked its relaxed and hypnotizing beat to start humming it at this moment.

"Is that "Three little birds?"

"Shut up, John. You're ruining the moment", he said quickly before resuming his humming and John laughed. Deep, rich and genuine. Sherlock kept humming until he repeated the song several and was lost inside it, he hadn't notice John by his side, leaning on one arm, head on his hand and staring down at him. His stared puzzled him. It was shinning bright but was looking afar, through Sherlock and deeper. He stared at him as Sherlock had galaxies in his ever changing eyes and with a tender expression. One he had only seen directed to one person. Claire. Something shattered inside of him at the thought, but John didn't seem shattered. His breathing was controlled and calm. The sounds were slowly shutting down and everything was just John, him and the space between them. He was afraid of moving, would John accept physical touch? Afraid of talking, would he break this bubble they've created? His doubts were shut down by John's eyes. They weren't grey like the day on the mountain. But they reflected a dark blue, as deep as the pacific ocean in a clear night were the moon would cast the sun's light on its surface. He was lost in them. Lost in John.

The moment was broken by a loud sound of a trumpet from the distance. Sherlock blinked repeatedly and John quickly stood up and helped Sherlock after. The both of them stood in front of each other not quite sure what to do as the sound of the trumpet danced through the air. John looked down at his feet and Sherlock frowned in confusion. John's tongue darted out to moist his lips, which were slightly chapped due the cold wind. 

"I haven't danced in awhile", John said softly. A small smile crossing his face. Why did he say that? 

"I haven't either", he said lamely. John took a step further and took Sherlock's hand in his without breaking eye contact. With a lift of his eyebrows, he asked if this was okay. Sherlock nodded. They seemed lost at who was going to lead, their arms clumsily bumping against each other as they try to position themselves correctly. A bit desperate, Sherlock grabbed John's hand in his and brought him close to his body by pushing him forwards with his hand on John's lower back. John was giggling at this point and Sherlock couldn't understand why. 

"I'll lead", he said firm but low to John. His giggles resonated in Sherlock's chest and the same fluttering feeling in his gut came back. At this, he squeezed John's hand tighter. 

"I always follow you", John replied. His comment took him a little off guard but blinked the thought away and they slowly start to make their way around swinging. The music was slow, rich and sensual of nature a piece he himself enjoyed hearing from the skillful player. John would smile at his own mistakes and Sherlock would lean in closer and ever so softly correct John with his voice. John got the hang of it and there was no need to keep correcting him. Minutes passed by, but everything inside the bubble seemed to have stopped and was this moment, this dancing of theirs was all that mattered. The music seemed to have fade away and their bodies came impossibly closer. Chests flushed against each other, legs touching with every step, John's grip on his shoulder, his nose lingering on his throat, Sherlock's protective hand on his back pulling him closer, his nose in the grey hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and let go of John's hands and made its way to John's hip were he dragged him even more closer. John's hand traveled from Sherlock's hand, climbed the arm of his friend and came to rest at the nape of his neck, pulling him down. They kept moving around, but neither Sherlock or John were aware of this. Each one lost in their heads and sensations this physical proximity brought. 

"John", his name escaped Sherlock's lips. John's grip became stronger. 

"No, Sherlock. Please." The tone in his blogger voice sent a shiver down his spine and thus kept silenced. 

\------------------------------------

When the morning came, they went with their routine just as usual. They ate breakfast in a new place and walked the city to the flat again. Where John went immediately to his bed. Sherlock didn't follow. His mind crowded with thoughts and sleep was off the table. He entered Mycroft's studio on the first floor to find his beloved Stradivarius. Its feel familiar and strange under his fingertips after so many months apart. He started to pluck at the strings in random patterns. The music grounding his thoughts to the real world and not his mind to keep him save from the monsters inside him. Sherlock thought about everything that happened a few hours ago. John couldn't possibly want that? With Sherlock nonetheless? It must be the lack of physical intimacy he was deprived of these months. John didn't feel the way Sherlock obviously felt for him. He'd declared so many times. Maybe it was John's way of looking for comfort, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't be able to say soft nonsense to him but needing him anyways. It was all stressing. Thoughts and scenarios kept running through his mind. And his brother's words crossing his mind time and time again. Was he holding John? He was free to do what he wanted the last 7 years. Is he here because he truly wants It and not because his moral sense dictates him to?

By the time he opened his eyes, it was almost night and he felt tired. He made his way to the bedroom, making sure to stop by John's first to see if he was still sleeping and went to bed. 

\------------------------------------------

He felt knackered, his ribs were hurting where he hit the ground when John tackled him to the ground the day before. It was nothing he couldn't stand, so he decided to keep sleeping and hope the pain was gone by tomorrow morning. A soft sound caught his attention. Slowly he turned around to the source and saw a black figure on the chair at the corner of the room. He leaned and turned the bedside lamp on to see John's surprised form sitting next to his bed.

"Sorry, I mean, er", he stumbled to find words. Nervous, Sherlock recognised. John closed his sketchbook hard and was about to stand.

"It's fine, John. I woke up by myself." Sherlock's words were soft spoken. "I slept too much already. If I keep going I'll die."

John chuckled at this.

"Besides being a creep is your second nature." John let a loud laugh out.

"You own The Creep Crown, though", John said between laughs. "Remember the time you showed up covered in blood wearing an armour?"

"It was my duty as a knight to protect my realm", Sherlock said with a straight face and serious tone that didn't help with John's laughter and he too followed soon.

"And the time I had to dress up as a clown". The laughs grew louder.

"I'm still pissed I didn't take a picture."

"I would have killed you", Sherlock said teasingly. 

"No, you wouldn't", John dared. "Mrs. Hudson was pushed from an helicopter."

"I'm really pissed it wasn't me", Sherlock said and laughter soon filled the room again.

"The case of Chris Melas", John chuckled and shook his head. "Fighting crimes dressed as ninjas".

"That was a good one indeed", Sherlock agreed.

"But that one doesn't top the list."

"Which one then?", John encouraged him to guess by lifting his chin in defiance.

"The time I stole a tourist bus."

"So you admit stolen it", John's grin widened. "Ha! I win!"

Sherlock hides his face behind his hands, cursing himself for his choice of words. In reality, he felt happy by John's delight in being right for once.

"We're not talking about that", Sherlock tried to say with a stern voice but couldn't help the giggles from escaping.

"Of course we're not. You just admit it. And no. Doesn't top the list."

"When we crashed into a theater and end up dancing Russian folklore on the stage. Well I end up dancing. You were just walking."

"Hey! It's not fair, I've never danced that before or heard it. And no."

"The mad hatter!"

"No."

"When we end up caged in the zoo."

"That was certainly scary, Sherlock." John's voice dripping with sarcasm. 

"Well for you. I am certainly not afraid of bears."

"If I recall correctly, you left me behind. And I've never seen you ran that fast in your life. Or pale."

"Shut up. In my defense when there's a cub, the mother is not far behind. I wanted to ensure my life."

"They told us the mother was dead, Sherlock. When I publish a book about you it'll be called: _Sherlock Holmes: Consulting detective, knows 240 kind of tobacco ash, afraid of Winnie the Pooh",_ John said with amazement. With a hand stretched in front of him as he looked into the distance to be dramatic. And a pillow landed on his face. Hard.

"Sherlock!"

" _**243, John.** _ "

"It'll sell, though. But still doesn't top the list."

"Fine. Tell me."

"Buckingham Palace in a sheet", and a hell of laughter was set loose.

"Mycroft's face-"

"No pants-"

"Threatening to walk away-"

"The ashtray-"

"You could have ended-"

"Public indecency-"

They say in between giggles. The sounds coming from them came to a silence and they were staring at each other with stupid grins on their faces, eyes bright.

"Tea?", John offered. Sherlock nod.

John left, forgetting his sketchbook on the chair along the vinyl charcoals and pencils. Sherlock got off the bed and walked to the chair, picked up the sketchbook and opened it. There were several sketches of Samoa's green scenery, London's landscape, portraits of strangers. But it was mostly Sherlock. He observed quiet and intently at John's drawings until he heard the kettle whistling. He closed it and made his way to the kitchen where he found John already pouring the tea in each cup. He came to stand close and saw John preparing each cup as they liked. Something warmed Sherlock's body from the center of his to his extremities. Leaving goosebumps as It went. When he was done, he gave Sherlock's his and started drinking his there. Standing next to Sherlock, one hand on the counter, the other holding the tea. Sherlock took a sip of his and read the time on the clock of the wall.

_23.59_

John was looking at him. Not amused. Mad. Intrigued. Crazy. None of them. He was looking at him with the brightest of eyes. Blessed. Sherlock thought. Sherlock's eyes traveled John's face. The white and gray hairs on top of his head that made him look smarter. But not as smart as he actually is. His forehead and the wrinkles Sherlock was sure contributed to their existence. His dark blond eyebrows he wished to trace with his thumbs. His ever changing eyes he craved to touch with his lips. And he needed the feel of his lips against his skin. He wondered, what would have happened had John never been shot. Or what his life must have look now had he not gotten himself clean. Had they never been in need of a flatmate.

As the zeroes aligned with the past 24 hours, marking the beginning of a new day, Sherlock's lips softly pressed against John's.

Each one of them leaned further in the warmth of each other and ever so slowly, claimed what was theirs all these years from the very beginning. They weren't rushing nor were they insecurely slow. Their lips were pressed firm against the other's, radiating a certain confidence from each man. Bodies, flushed against each other. Hands, making their way through the other's body. Breathing, fast. Temperature, hot. Sherlock's teeth clashed against John's at the beginning, it required less pressure and Sherlock to lean down and take John's face in his hands and the new angle made everything spark inside of Sherlock. John's arms were embracing Sherlock's form tightly by his waist. He was in need of air, but he would only accept the one John exhaled to have _something_ of John in his chest. Sherlock's thumbs started to caress John's cheeks, memorising the feeling of his skin under his fingertips. One of John's hands was making its way through his body, electrifying every inch he explored. Sherlock felt on fire by his touch and only his lips would cool him down. A part of lips and a deep groan from John was all it took for Sherlock to explore the inside of John's wet tongue and push him against the counter, looming over John. Without breaking the contact. 

John's kisses held promises. Sherlock could taste his affection on his lips. The need on his teeth. His love on his tongue. And Sherlock accepted them all. And made promises of his own. He vowed to make him happy. To always be by his side. John only had to ask and he would give as much as he can. The kiss grew desperate, hands grabbing on clothes, exploring soft hair, John leading Sherlock backwards and crashing against the dinning table but they didn't stop. Sherlock needed John as much as John needed him. They didn't need words. It had always been carved in their hearts and he cursed himself for ever doubting it. But nothing, nothing, nothing would convince him otherwise. Because John Watson is the only one to keep him right. And he kissed John deeper, with all of his soul. 

It was the feeling of John's hand that made him slow down. A steady presence he now knew wouldn't be able to go on without. Every heartbeat was John's now. He would live for John. Next to John. Where he would always feel it and never doubt his intentions and actions. Only then did he noticed they had stopped kissing. John had his eyes closed, lips red and swollen. Sherlock's hands traveled again to his face and ever so slowly traced the shape of John's eyebrows and came to rest at the end of them. He leaned down and kissed every eyelid. John's grip on his hip tightened. The hand on his chest pressed harder. John's eyelids opened and he was immediately lost again. Yet the one thing keeping him oriented were those very warm eyes he would recognise anywhere. 

"Sherlock."

John's voice was a whisper. And it was enough to listen to all the question behind his name. The way he said it revealed every doubt and insecurity and all the questions he was afraid to ask. But they never needed words. They were unnecessary between them. Now, he understood. And therefore he would show John exactly what he means to him 

"John."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? An update?!
> 
> So yeah! Chapter 13 now completed! 
> 
> I seriously don't know what happened on Thursday. But here take this 3k smut chapter as an apology.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

At first he thought his imagination went nuts this time. Sherlock would never look, touch or _want_ him this way. God, he was officially crazy. One moment he was in the kitchen drinking his tea next to Sherlock and then his best friend was a hair away from him and stared at him with the most joyous of eyes. The air seemed to change at that moment and his body was aware of everything surrounding him even when his eyes were locked to the man in front of him. John could feel Sherlock's slow and warm exhale on his cheek and it send shivers down his spine. Sherlock came closer and none of them lost the eye contact. And he kissed him. It went along harsh and clumsy the first seconds. Partly because neither expected the other to move and met in the middle. Teeth clashing and uncoordinated. But once they found a rhythm, he couldn't get enough. John's bottom lip was trapped between Sherlock's. He was using the right amount of pressure- not too much to be aggressive or too light to be lifeless- but enough to make him dizzy. Sherlock's mouth was exquisite fine wine and John was starving on his kisses, chasing after them afraid they would ran away. And hoped Sherlock understood what exactly he was making him feel. John parted his lips slightly. Inviting Sherlock in just to have a peak before closing it again. He could feel his smile on his lips. John's hands ventured to explore Sherlock's body. Tracing roads and streets with his fingertips on Sherlock's back and chest. Sherlock continued to held John's head in his arms, tightly but with a protective tenderness as though he will vanish if he dared to move. John didn't register the groan that came out of his mouth, or his hip hitting the corner. All he could process was Sherlock's tongue slowly massaging his and tracing the tip of it across his teeth. He needed more, so he did what he does best: he gave everything to Sherlock.

It was a roller coaster. Of those who slowly climb to the top and then your stomach does all sorts of things because its going too fast and you can barely take a moment to breath. But oh, is it was so fulfilling. And now that he got a taste, there was no going back. There it was, at the tip of Sherlock's tongue: the want. John was sure they looked ridiculous right now. Knowing where to touch but wanting to touch everywhere anyways. Sometimes out of rhythm. Bumping noses in their desperation to explore more with their tongues. John holding himself in place by grabbing the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock clinging to his clothes while at the same time trying to get rid off it. It was messy, he knew it. And certainly not his best make out session. But for John Hamish Watson, it was perfect.

Or almost.

What were they doing? Never mind, he knew exactly what this was. But what did this mean exactly? Sherlock never showed this raw passion to anyone. Or have ever been so physical with anyone, as far as he knows. Sure he'd kissed many people for The Work, but Sherlock was always in control. Now he was a wild animal out of his cage. Did Sherlock even feel things this way? How long had it been, if he truly did? Was he playing with John like he has been doing all these years? Or is- whatever this is, genuinely coming from Sherlock? How far were they going with this? How far did he want to go with this himself?

It was Sherlock's warm hands on his face that brought him back to reality. He wasn't aware they had stop kissing and his eyes were fixed to his own hand on Sherlock's chest, right were his heart was. Afraid this was all a joke, he didn't dare to look at him in the eye. Instead he closed his eyes and let his hand fall from the wild beating of Sherlock's heart. He was prepared for anything, really. Whether it was Sherlock declaring love (if that was possible), claiming it was an experiment and leave or worst of all- to not give any explanation of this. He was confused when his hands started to caress his face. He didn't open his eyes. Or breathe for that matter. He needed to steady himself. His hand went back to the chest in front of him. Sherlock's hands stopped roaming. There was a moment of ghost-quiet silence before he felt Sherlock's burning lips on his closed eyelids.

"Sherlock", it was merely a whisper that escaped his lips. He didn't mean to say Sherlock's name. Hell, he didn't even know what he was doing. He was sure he would fall at any moment. His eyes met Sherlock's.

"John."

The way Sherlock said his name anchored him to the moment. He wasn't sure how he did it, telling him everything he needed to know just by saying his name. A four letter word explained more than all the fast spoken deductions, best man speeches and apologies Sherlock could be capable of ever verbalizing. There was a promise hidden in between the separate letters. A declaration even. It was all John needed.

He placed both his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and brought him down. Foreheads touching. Noses merely centimeters away. Sharing the same air. He stood on his toes just as Sherlock bent a little bit more down and their noses bumped against each other. Sherlock's grin was so bright, genuine, happy and took all the space on John's sight and thought process, he didn't even noticed he was sporting one not different from Sherlock's. It was Sherlock that tenderly nuzzled John's cold nose, sending shivers down his spine. No one has ever done that to him. It was intimate in a way a kiss wasn't. It wasn't desperate like what they were just doing. Or raw an passionate. While kisses could be lovely and tender. This showed a level of affection that was above platonic or sexual.

Owh, Sherlock.

"I need you."

Sherlock gave John a closed mouthed kiss.

"I know."

John chased his mouth. Only lips caressing at first. John sucking Sherlock's bottom lip. When they stopped, Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were dark with lust, lips swollen and flushed it turned John on to watched him turned on.

"Me too", Sherlock said before taking the matter in his hands and kissed him. Hard. He was now leading John backwards. Where were they going? He didn't know and he frankly didn't care as long Sherlock went with him. They bumped in several places along the way. Coffee table, drawer, chair. Most of the times breaking the expensive glass decor on them but kept walking either way. The both of them made their way through the corridor. Caging each other against the walls. Panting. Giving bruising desperate kisses on their mouths. Wet kisses along throats. Bodies being pinned against the wall. Hands grabbing hair and clothes. Pushing their way down to their final destination.

John basically dragged Sherlock into his room, taking Sherlock down with him as he landed on his back on the bed. For some reason they still had clothes on. John didn't linger on an explanation before he had Sherlock's shirt in his hands and was ripping it off. Sherlock was straddling his hips and the pressure on them made him very aware of both of their erections. He didn't have time to think about it as Sherlock's pale skin was presented in front of him. Goosebumps made their way on his body, his chest moved up and down, his nipples were hard. It was too much for John to contain. John brought Sherlock down to his chest in a quick motion and rolled them over. Sherlock was startled for a moment before a look of pleasure sat on his face as John kissed along Sherlock's pale throat in front of him. His hand found its way to John's hair and held him tightly into place while the other tried in vain to get John's shirt off. John didn't notice Sherlock's effort as he was simply too busy making his way down to his chest. Planting a mixture of light and wet kisses on his skin. Making Sherlock's blood run faster and down his groin. Sherlock was taking none of it without feeling John's skin on his.

Sherlock sat on the bed with unimaginable speed, almost knocking John out of the bed if it weren't for his fast reflexes that he managed to caught John by his hips. John was now straddling his hips, panting hard and giggling. Sherlock would have joined him had he not been waiting too damn long for them to take this step and John's endless teasing kisses had him horny. He needed whatever John was willing to give immediately.

"You're so", he yanked John's shirt. "overdressed." He said the last word with disgust. He admired John's torso for a moment. Fair hair. Gold skin now shining evenly in all parts of his upper body. Contrasting with his pale skin. Muscled pectorals. John's abs contracting as he laughed. Defining them even more so. He watched the way his arms flexed as his hand grabbed the headboard for support. Muscles flexing under the skin, giving Sherlock a proper look of his defined arms. God, he'd never expected this. John was hotter now. How was this even possible? The man was older now. This took less than a second. After all, patience wasn't Sherlock's best virtue and went straight to John's chest.

John's laugh was cut short as Sherlock put a warm hand on his shoulder blade and leaned forward to take his left nipple into his mouth. The sudden contact made him jumped a little, but soon he found Sherlock's soft bites made him swim in relaxed waters and at the same time made him harder. His hips moved on their own volition. Undulating. Slowly. Making Sherlock to either stop his ministrations or giving him new spirit to do his work more thoroughly. Giving a particular hard thrust against the detective's clothed erection, gave John a dark, lust-filled and deep moan from Sherlock. All the blood went between his legs at the sound of that pornographic voice. All he knew next was that he was laying horizontal against the bed. Hands pinned by a large hand above his head. Sherlock was grinding against his hips. Pinching his left nipple. Sucking the other one. His skin was a small flame that could burst into an explosion in a matter of seconds. Sherlock's hips were sparking that flame to light and he was unable to do anything but let him. He was unaware of the groans escaping his mouth. Or the movements of his hips as he sought more friction. Sherlock let go of his hands. John felt Sherlock's tongue travel his skin making him shiver with want and arousal. He was making his way up to John's throat. Sucking and kissing. A particular sensitive spot behind his ear, had him curling his toes and holding Sherlock by his short hair.

"John", the detective moaned with want to his ear. It was all John needed to sent his pajama bottoms flying away from his body. John's boxers followed suit by Sherlock tugging them off almost immediately. John launched himself forwards, landing on the detective and taking his pants as soon as possible. Only to find he wasn't wearing any underwear and was getting a good look at Sherlock's long cock proudly leaking.

John was kissing him unhurriedly and sensually. Taking his time to savour the taste of the man under him. Sherlock's cock had been rejected too long for his liking, so when John wrapped his hand at the base and squeezed, he was utterly blessed. More so when his hand started moving along his shaft alternating between a fast and agonizingly slow pace that had Sherlock writhing on the bed. Eyes half open and dazed. Flushed. Lips glistening with spit. Red and swollen. One hand grabbing John's arm with a vice like grip. While the other pulled at his short hair. Seeing Sherlock like this made John impossibly harder, he now had his other hand on his cock smearing the precome on the head as he worked Sherlock.

Fuck.

Sherlock's open mouth was just asking to be brutalized by a kiss.

John managed to face Sherlock only to kiss him, hard and dirty. Fucking Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. Never slowing down on the fast pace of his hand on Sherlock's penis. Sherlock was lowly moaning by now. John could feel the trilling of them on his mouth, making his body light on fire by them. John broke the kiss to take a deep breath and went back to kiss Sherlock's pale skin along his collarbone. Making its way up and up until he was at his ear. He nibbled at his earlobe playfully and stopped stroking Sherlock. The man in question let a loud whine out at John's actions.

"Jooohn!" He said grabbing John by the hips and brought him down to lay flat against himself, before rolling them over. He was looking very seriously at John now.

"You just want to kill me now." Sherlock accused. His hands moving down until they reached John's balls. Fondling with him. John lost it for a bit, before staring back at Sherlock who had now an evil grin on his face.

"No", he said. "I want you to take me." He threw his head back. "Fuck me, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and the grin disappeared from his face. Seriously considering John's words. He sure wasn't expecting John to make such request giving that he was "not gay". He thought he'd heard the words wrong. But the need in John's voice was palpable. Not even him with his grand imagination could have come up with a sound so desperate, passionate and horny. This either meant John was very aroused or he'd previously done it. His brain was blank with rage at the latter. He was absolutely furious of all John's previous girlfriends, nightstands and now apparently boyfriends too. It was John's lips on his, tenderly caressing them that made the white rage fade away. And made him remember that John choose him now. He wanted to be with him now. And was just as heartbroken by the last years as he himself was. In John's words: It was fine. Sometimes the only way to realise what you truly feel for someone, is to distanced yourself. He vowed at that moment to wear his feelings to John like an armour. He would not be ashamed of them. The kiss went on. The total opposite of the rushing ones they had shared these last times. Sherlock grinned into the kiss, his smile on John's lips.

"You don't have condoms, neither do I. I am not going in the middle of the night to buy some. I assume you're clean and that the lube is in the left bottom drawer. Am I correct?"

John frowned first then burst out laughing.

"As always." He said in between giggles.

With his words, Sherlock walked to the drawer to retrieve the bottle and came rushing to John again. Kissing him on the shoulder before lying on his front between John's legs facing his dick. Now he got a proper look at his lover's penis. His cock was thick and Sherlock could only wondered how good it would feel stretching his anus and filling him up. He might not get that tonight, but it didn't mean he wasn't going to enjoy it in any way. Sherlock closed his lips around the head, tasting the saltiness of the precome on his tongue as he swirled it around and dipped it in the tiny hole making John groan. Then he took him as far as he could, feeling the weight of his cock on his tongue. He felt deliciously fulled. He took him even further, closing his throat around his dick and feeling dizzy at the lack of oxygen. Not that he cared, really. He could die this way. Happily. He came back and took deep breaths before licking and sucking John off. John's breathing was fast, but no sounds were coming from him. Sherlock knew exactly how to change that.

He licked back down to the base of his cock and further until he was sucking one ball into his mouth. Sherlock managed to coat his fingers with lube and was now pressing two digits against his perineum. John's belly contract, if he hadn't his mouth full of balls he would have smirked.

"Sherlock"

Sherlock slipped his index finger into John relatively easy. He continued to suck him off while pumping his finger in and out with ease. He quickly added a second finger. This time not bothering to avoid John's prostate. John was now panting, low moans escaping his lips and those sounds made Sherlock shiver with lust. A third finger joined the party. Giving John a wonderful prostate massage while being suck off. He could see the effect this had on him. His chest was flushed, a thin layer of sweat now covering some parts, John's lips open, moaning, eyes closed, the contract of his abs, the hand gripping his short hair. He wants to see him come. Like this. Just under the influence of his mouth and fingers. To make him come down his throat and taste his sperm on his lips to later share it with John as they kiss. He could come from that image too.

No time for that.

Sherlock quickly removed his fingers and mouth off him. Leaving him panting on the bed with only one word on his mouth being said repeatedly.

_Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_

Sherlock kissed John's belly, poured lube along the length of his shaft and aligned himself with John's entrance. Teasingly rubbing the head of his cock around John's hole and perineum.

"You want this don't you?" He said cockily. Truthfully he'd expected an answer, whether it was understandable to his ears or not. But never did he expect John to send him landing on his back on the bed, as he straddled Sherlock's hips, took a hold of his cock and buried himself deep into him until his arse was seated on him. All Sherlock could do was gasp in surprise at the wonderful turn of events. His cock now surrounded by John's warm inside.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Don't you dare teasing me for so long. I've had enough of us dancing around already."

John went to work. He started to slowly lift himself until Sherlock's cock was mere inches of getting out. Then he would come back down. Feeling how Sherlock's length traveled inside him making him full and completed. He bit his lip in order to contain a moan, but was unable to do so when the tip of Sherlock's cock brushed his prostate. He went agonizingly slow at first. Increasing and decreasing the squeezes he gave around the cock that was up his arse. This pace however, didn't last long. John quickly gained speed. His cock now bouncing up and down as he himself did. The sound of flesh slamming against flesh increased exponentially. So did the warm feeling in John's belly. Sherlock's mouth was open and staring at him intently as he fucked himself on his lover's cock. He could feel his hands on his hips. Strong enough he was sure he would be able to feel them tomorrow on his skin. He saw as Sherlock threw his head back as he squeezed tightly around him trying to milk, going faster and faster wanting to feel Sherlock's come filling him. The both of them were now moaning. Sherlock stuck on the name of his lover and John on the word fuck. Sherlock started to meet his thrusts up and it all felt too much and still not enough for John to come. Sherlock most have seen this because now John was on his back. Legs wrapped around Sherlock's waist. And positively being buggered by Sherlock at a fast punishing pace.

"Harder, Sherlock. Owh, fuck. Fuck me hard."

Sherlock was thrusting fast and hard. Almost unable to keep standing and not collapse on John but his own orgasm was so closed he could feel it. He bent John's legs to his chest.

"Christ"

Sherlock's cock went deeper. Every thrust now hitting that sweet spot over and over again driving John insane with want. Every time. On the way in. And on the way out. He wanted more. Every rub against his prostate made him moan. The followings made him moan even louder. He was unable to keep quiet.

"Fuck, Sherlock. Owh, fuck".

He felt it now, the all familiar prickling sensation growing bit by bit. He was close. much too close. He was panting, writhing, moaning, grabbing the sheets as if it were his only anchor. He couldn't take this anymore. One hand found his way to his prick and started to jerk off. Sherlock took the clue and knew John was close. Wanting for the both of them to come at the same time, Sherlock went even faster. All he could hear was the obscene sounds of their flesh, John's moans and his ha--

He was coming. Pleasure shooting through his cock. John's squeezes making him feel light headed. God. He kept thrusting, unable to stop until he was sure every drop of sperm was locked inside of John. Somehow, seeing John arching back, moaning-- forget that. Screaming and calling Sherlock's name was enough to make him want to die happily there. He was gasping for air by the time he got out of John and collapsed next to him. His mind light and happy. He wrapped one leg around John's right one and threw an arm across his torso and rest his head on his chest. Hearing the frantic beating come back to normal. Not minding one bit the strong smell of each other, their sweat and the mess of come on John's belly.

John was at the verge of falling asleep when Sherlock spoke.

"Cook me something, John. I'm starving."

John chuckled. "I can't. You're blocking the way."

"John, I did not predict to be hungry at the end of this. You could at least help me." His voice was partly muffled by John's skin.

"You didn't predicted that?" John seemed to gave it a thought. "What _did _you predict then?"__

Sherlock was smiling now. "Owh, I am predicting many things in our future, John Watson. For instance I would like you to fuck me. Now that I've got a taste of you I can't wait for you to lose control and choke me on your cock--"

Sherlock continued talking. Tackling off all the points of the things he wanted to do with John. Oblivious to the fact John was sound asleep. When he realised this, he wanted to wake him up, but seeing him, eyes closed, features soft and peacefully sleeping he thought better. With a kiss to his nose, he got up to find something to clean them. And then went straight back to the place next to John. Where he now belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I had to split this chapter because it was too long for my liking and I don't want any of you sleeping halfway through it.  
> This is my first time writing smut. I am a dickless person (ahem, a woman) so I had to consult with people with physical experience about this to write it properly. That's why I took so long. And hope, _really_ hope you like it. 
> 
> I always thought, after all these years, their first time would be fast and hard. So they can show each other they actually _want_ one another. Desperately. No fluffy sex, though that's coming in the next chapter so they can show their love to one another. Properly this time. 
> 
> I want to sleep now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update!
> 
> Yes, I know. I haven't updated in a month. But heeeeeeey while you all flipped over the trailer I was in the middle of the amazonian jungle with no internet connection being bitten by mosquitoes. If anyone is kind enough to update me with what has happen I'll be really glad. Because apparently a lot happened.

Sherlock never liked sleeping. Not because he had better things to do with his time but rather because it was in times like those-, laying in his bed, alone surrounded only by the coldness and darkness of the night that he would think. Not about cases, chemicals or diseases. But about the wrongness of it all. To know John was only one room upstairs instead of next to him. That John actually cared about what people said. About how he didn't think himself worthy of a man like him. He usually forced himself to stop there, knowing it was the best. But after he made John go, it was worse.

Not only did his bed feel unreasonably empty. But all of him. His head was a void when not distracted. The space between his lungs was deserted. All that existed was to solve a case and nothing else. In those moments he would question his actions. What if everything had taken a different path? What if John had been more stubborn? Would he have stayed? As his thoughts swirled around his head, tears would made their way down his face as he laid perfectly still in the darkness of the night, wishing to be rescued of himself.

In order to avoid all of that, he would emerged himself in his work until his eyes refused to remain open and he would collapsed from the fatigue. He ended many times in the A&E and one specific time: two weeks in the hospital. But as time went by, John became the second thing he thought about in the morning. Then the third. And so on. Until he'd managed to live with the hollow left by the kindest man. He fell into regular eating habits, unconsciously following the pattern stipulated by his blogger. He slept more often. But the mornings were just as hollow and meaningless as the day before.

This morning, there was a strong arm across his chest. A leg hooked around his thigh. A hand slowly drawing patterns on his shoulder and a blond head right above his heart. He hadn't open his eyes yet, preferring to emerge himself in the feeling of the moment. How his body was warmed by John's proximity. The damp air of John's breathing tickling him just under his collarbone. His slow but steady heartbeat resonated against Sherlock's ribs.

"I know you're awake, Sherlock."

A little crooked smile made its way across Sherlock's face as he felt John's sleepy voice travelling through his body.

"Hello, John."

John didn't reply immediately. His fingers continued to make random patterns on his skin instead. Sherlock remained with his eyes closed. Memorizing the patterns John made with his calloused index finger on his skin. The movements felt hypnotizing, it made his mind fall into a state of blankness. It was until John started moving that he dared to open his eyes.

John was now face to face with him. All his body covering him like a blanket. Sherlock was momentarily lost in the sea of John's eyes. He remembered how they resembled the crystal blue water of Samoa when they were fishing. Now they were stormy gray waves piercing him. There was something indescribable about his gaze but Sherlock paid no mind as John came closer and gave him a quick peck on his lips and rested his forehead against his. Eyes closed.

"Morning", said John.

This time he kissed Sherlock deeply. It was soft but promised a certain danger like the sharp thorns underneath a rose. How did John manage to be both? His lips caressed Sherlock’s bottom one. A gentle suck followed by a slight teasing of his tongue. Morning breath be damned. His hand made its way through John’s hair, the soft membranes tangling in between his fingers. Little bit of tugging to make John gasp just so, it made Sherlock’s body overflow in goosebumps. Not being one to miss an opportunity, as John opened his mouth slightly, Sherlock delved in his mouth. What was merely caresses a few seconds ago, became passionate wet touches with his tongue. The rush from a few hours ago disappeared with the fog in the morning. Sherlock took his time to thoroughly explore and find out the way John Watson liked to be kissed. What made him gasp, bite Sherlock's lip in surprise, hum approvingly. He would like very much to be like this forever and compensate for all the time they lost. To intimately know John.

His stomach had other plans.

In the middle of their session, his stomach growled like a hungry monstrous creature making John broke the kiss in confusion and Sherlock had to look away in embarrassment. Sherlock knew exactly what was coming next.

"We're getting breakfast."

John said seriously.

"Jooooohn."

"Don't _Jooooohn_ me," John mocked Sherlock. "If we're doing this, I don't want you to pass out."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, I am."

"We can do this real quick."

"Don't negotiate this with me. I'm not going to do this, Sherlock."

"Less than two minutes. I think you'll see I'm quite magical."

"Resurrecting my body from the death would be magical but I rather not go through that."

"Your jokes are just as lame as I remember."

"You don't mean that. You have that smile on your face again. Not lying to me, Sherlock."

_"That smile?"_

Sherlock asked confused.

"Yes." John said softly and kissed his mouth. "The one that makes the corner of your eyes wrinkle. It marks these lines here across your cheeks. And creates this thing here over your nose."

He kissed the tip of his nose.

 _"That smile_ is very creative from your part."

"I don't have to be creative with it. It has a name. It's just that I haven't told you what it's called yet."

"And why not?"

"Because you do it unconsciously. And I like it when you smile like that."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"It's your real smile, Sherlock. Of course I like it."

The words were innocent, he knew it. There was nothing really special about them. People liked things everyday. John liked Sherlock -or at least at some degree- which was why he initially took the decision to move in with him.  
It was a simple gesture of John's to vocalize his attraction. His tone made it more sound and realistic. John told the truth in a soft surprised voice that was reassuring at the same time. His eyes were locked with Sherlock's, they expressed the same words and more with the same complexity and width of the expanding universe. He came closer to his lips, close enough that when he moved his lips they would brush Sherlock's.

Sherlock thought how he could be still alive when he was certain his heart wasn't functioning anymore.

"I always have", he whispered the confession. "but it's hard to get you to smile like this when its not over locked room murders and serial killers".

Sherlock chuckles.

John kisses his temple tenderly.

"I love you, John." Sherlock says slowly without hesitation. He means it. This. He wants it everyday. To just be with John. He died for John. He killed for John. Now it was time to live for John. Nothing in the way. Just the two of them. He loved him.

John went still. His lips against Sherlock's skin. He could feel John's heartbeat through his chest. His slightly damp hand on his neck. Why was he processing this? Wasn't it obvious what he felt? John slowly moved until he was staring into Sherlock's eyes.

And proceeded to devour Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock made a surprised sound that was swallowed by John before humming approvingly and wrapping his legs around John's hips. He lost track of his thoughts and fell victim of John's ministrations. John slowed it down to Sherlock's disapproval but was unable to escape the dizzy feeling that came with kissing John thoroughly slow. John stopped and lightly pressed his lips against his without moving.

"Now I get to kiss it away." Said John.

"You can kiss it good morning too. I won't mind', Sherlock breathed in John's mouthed.

John's thumb caressed his cheek slowly before looking up and stared at his eyes. John started the kiss with the same slow speed he left. But it slowly gain intensity to the point Sherlock had to break the kiss to catch again the oxygen John had suck from his lungs. John seemed fine with it and proceeded to attack his pale throat. Leaving a mixture of closed and open mouthed kisses along its way to his ear where he nibbled at his earlobe and Sherlock was unable to do anything but to tangle his fingers in John's hair and pull making John groan against his pulse.

"John".

John smiled against his pulse. Gave him a peck there and pulled his upper body from Sherlock's torso, balancing it on his hands. The warmth of John's body was gone and Sherlock found himself needing that comfort against him. Before he could tangle himself around John and bring him down, John was out of the bed. Naked. Normally he would emerge himself in admiring and memorizing John's physique but John had other plans and took him by the ankles and dragged him to the edge of the bed until he was sitted. Stripping the bed linens completely off the bed and knocking two pillows to the floor in the process.

"John! What?!"

"This is what we're going to do."

"Pffft."

John give him his "I-will-not-take-your-bullshit" look.

"We're going to shower. Change. Take breakfast. We're going to walk and see where the day takes us like we've been doing all these days."

Sherlock sighed defeated. "Fine."

"Good", he turned around. Showing that round arse in all its naked glory and walked to the door. "You might get a reward if you're fast."

Sherlock never sprung from the bed faster and entered the bathroom before John could even get out of the door of their own bedroom.

\----------------------------------

The day had plans for both of them. When they were taking breakfast, Sherlock received a message from Mycroft telling him their parents were coming to the city and Mummy was expecting him to pick them at the airport. Sherlock didn't want to leave John but at the same time he knew how his Mother would be if she were to find out about John and him. Actually _when_. Because she was bound to see straight through the both of them and she would be insufferable. And something told him John wasn't ready to be bombarded by questions. When he was about to come up with some excuse to get out of John's sight, John's phone rung. Harry called him saying she wasn't feeling very well. Being the goodhearted doctor he is, John immediately went to his sister with the promise of calling him on his lips.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the crowd. The flight landed 20 minutes ago and he couldn't understand what was taking so long for them to get out. He was starting to get impatient until he saw two familiar figures walking towards him.

"Sherlock!", said Mummy.

Something about them at that moment caught his attention. Their hands were sealed together. It was a small detail. But those were by far the most important. They told the story of a lifetime. Maybe it all started with a handshake for them. Grew in amicable touches to hugs. Flourished in passionate caresses and devoted touches. Jumped into the reality of life and never let go, even when those same hands grew fragile by the minute and became more of a prisoner of their age. He wanted that with John. That and everything. He wanted enough time together to admire the night sky. To swim. To watch crappy telly. To read. To walk along the shore with their toes in the sand. Have dinner. And make love. Wake up together. And kiss and forget about everything and everyone and their past selves. And just be prisoner of the moment. And hold John closely. And never let him go.

Sherlock hugged his mother tightly and lovingly for the first time since he was a kid. And gave her a kiss on the cheek. He did the same to his father.

"Owh, Sherlock!", she exclaimed as she grabbed him by his shoulders and looked into his eyes. Trying to figure out this genuine action of her son but found nothing suspicious.

"You're fed up."

"Your hair."

Said his parents at the same time. He knew the ride to the hotel was going to be long and full of questions.

\-------------------

After managing to escape the grasp of his parents, Sherlock was ready to go home and to John's arms. However once there he was met with a desolated flat.

_At home. Where are you?_

**Leaving Harry's. Take away? I'm hungry.**

We can have dinner at Angelo's.

**Be there in 30.**

Sherlock hailed a cab and went directly there. He was lost in thought the entire ride. He knew last time he brought the subject up, John had disappeared. He wasn’t sure if it was the idea itself that made him run away or what he said after it. But he had been considering it for a long time. It was something he was planning even after he thought John was never coming back. People talked about these sort of things over dinner, right?

He knew John didn’t want him to stop being a consulting detective. A certain time he thought he would like to do it for his entire life, but now he didn't. He knew John thought it had something to do with him, and he was right. He might lose him. Sherlock lost him many times and to say those were the hardest moments of his life was an understatement. And he didn’t need to know what will happen to John if he were to die. He knew it already. He couldn't have that. When John was gone he realized everything he did was meaningless because he could not share it with John. Life stopped for him. And Sherlock wanted to share everything with John as long as it didn’t expose their lives to death. He wanted to live life with John until they were both old and wrinkled. Because that’s what he was to him. His life. And now that they were together, he was everything.

He would talk with John about it over dinner. He would not scream in anger like last time. He needed to make John understand and he would tell him as lovingly and convincing as he could because it was what he felt he needed.

There had been an accident on the street and the traffic was stuck. Sherlock paid and got out, opting to walk the remaining track. He was walking down an alley about to get on the main road when he saw the familiar figure of John walking with... his therapist?

Something told Sherlock not to interrupt, knowing his friend would be glad if Sherlock wasn't aware he talked to his therapist. Sherlock leaned against a wall and waited for her to go. But he could hear them talking on the pavement in front of Angelo's.

"Are you happy you came back?"

"Yes, I am. I'm happy as long as I'm with him."

None of them said anything for some moments. He could hear the tension and worry Ella had, he didn't like one bit of it.

"John. Are you sure he loves you? After everything he did?"

"I am. I believe in him."

Sherlock's heart jumped by John's steady and frank voice.

"And do you love him?"

"It's not that simple."

Sherlock cocked his head. 

"Everything is simple. We make it complicated, John. You either do or you don't."

Sherlock would argue what he heard was a complete lie. But John always had a steady voice and would reply in a soft voice almost immediately when he spoke the truth.

"I don't. I don't love him."

He said those words the exact same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didnn't know this chapter was going to end like this either.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE!
> 
> Okay, first of all, we should thank Ember88 for telling me to post this chapter. Life happens and so does shit, but that is not an excuse for not posting a chapter I had already written. So I apologise. 
> 
> Secondly, don't be confused. You're reading the right chapter. So don't panic! Just... you know... keep reading. 
> 
> Now... why are you still reading this note?

_"Oh, God",_ were the only two words Sherlock formulated as John took his time exploring his neck. John's naked form covered him, making his mind go blank and only arose his carnal desires to infinity and beyond. His breathing was erratic, as if he'd just run a marathon when in reality he was in the same horizontal position for the past fifteen minutes. Why John wanted to take things slow then, was beyond his comprehension. He was squirming, trying to look for friction where John was so stubbornly ignoring. Instead, he continued to explore Sherlock's body with his lips. His neck, collarbones, chest. Sherlock felt the ghost of his caresses as he moved south, closer to where he needed. John's tongue darted out to leave wet kisses along his side and hipbones. Going closer and closer, ever so slowly, betwuueen his legs. Sherlock held the sheets with a vice grip, preparing himself for what was about to come. What would it be? The strong teasing grip of John's fist? The wet heat of his mouth on his aching member? Or perhaps... lower? Where John could fill him up and finally shut his thoughts down?

He didn't mind as long as John did something, whatever to release the pain.

John's hot breath was on his testicles. The electric current that went through his body was too much. He threw his head back, his toes curled, his knuckles were white from gripping at the sheets and his testicles tightened. Forget it, it wasn't enough. If John wasn't about to do anything, he would take matters into his own h---

_"Oh"_

John started to stroke Sherlock slowly. It was however just a slight touch, nothing that really gave him the release he craved. Instead it built the pressure he was feeling to the point his head would burst. And as soon as John's hand made contact with his member, his touch was gone. Sherlock groaned deep from the darkest place of his chest.

"John, fuck".

"You're eager", said John with a wicked little smile on his face as Sherlock straddled his lap.

"You've been teasing me for far too long". Sherlock said breathless and gave John a quick kiss.

"It's not teasing", he chuckled.

"Then...", Sherlock whispered in his ear. "what is it?"

"I'm admiring you", Sherlock felt John's voice trilling in his chest as his lips brushed Sherlock's. "With my mouth". John took hold of Sherlock's hips and brought him closer until they were flushed against each other. "With my hands". John's fingers drew patterns on his skin. His touch light, cautious but reverent. As if he were afraid this was a dream. He intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's, holding tightly onto him. His other hand travelled from his hip to his ribs, chest, throat. Until his hand was softly caressing one cheek. It was only then that Sherlock realised his eyes were closed, already too deep into John's touch. When he opened his eyes, it was to find that same transparent look, the one he could read at the beginning of it all, the one that held no secrets, hatred or regret. This was John's core reflected in his eyes. "And with my heart".

The words were whispered tenderly. But with a clear conviction. There was nothing to doubt. Sherlock did not question his words at the moment either.

It was John who closed the minimal gap between them with his lips. It wasn't rushed or messy like the ones they shared minutes ago when they entered the flat in desperation and bumped against everything. This one was slow and deep. It made Sherlock go into a half conscious state where all he could process was John's lips on him. John's hands on him. John's heartbeat against his own. He felt saved because the kiss only confirmed John's latter words.

It didn't take long however, for the kiss to turn passionate. John's breathy moans on Sherlock's lips ignited his sinful side. He wanted John. It was all it mattered at that moment. Soon enough, Sherlock was laying on his back, his legs around John's waist. Waiting for the intrusive fingers to prepare him. John caressed the inside of his thighs with his lips. Sensitizing the skin to the point every little contact set fire to his cells. As desperate as John seemed moments ago, he was taking his time.

John prepared Sherlock with his fingers. Refusing to touch that sensitive spot Sherlock was desperate to feel touched. Sherlock was yearning for John. His skin was bathed in glowing sweat. He was having a hard time controlling his breathing. His chest was expanding and contracting erratically. One of his hand was pulling at his hair while the other was anchored on John's neck. His bottom lip was red and trapped between his teeth. It was a beautiful mess to John's eyes. With one final kiss to Sherlock's knees, he extracted his fingers from his anus and lubed his cock.

Sherlock observed as John loomed over him. Facing him. John's eyes seemed to ask for permission even though his pupils were dilated with lust. Sherlock understood the silent petition and gave his answer with a tender kiss just under his jaw after taking in John's musk. John seemed to collect himself after this and Sherlock looked at him in the eyes. John's fingers roamed through Sherlock's short hair and unconsciously pulled him by the hair a little.

"Thank you, Sherl", he whispered the words.

Those three words were enough to spark Sherlock's chest on fire. They were warm chocolate on a cold day for his heart. How did Sherlock caught the attention of this kind human? There was no time for him to think about an answer as he felt the head of John's cock at his entrance. And then ever so slowly, pushing in. He felt every inch, every throb of his cock. Sherlock tried to relax, experiencing how uncomfortable it was after all these years but still familiar.

"Look at me, Sherl".

John must be always right. As he looked into his eyes, he remembered why he wanted this so much. John was the very roots of his heart and there was no one, no one who would take his place. John wasn't his pressure point, instead it was he who made him a noble person and he who saved him in many ways. There was nothing, nothing in this world that would make Sherlock stop feeling like this about John. He loved him. And once he realised this, he wasn't going to stop.

John started to move slowly, his cock brushed against that sweet spot on his way in and out. Sherlock's moans slowly gained volume as John increased his speed fractionally. It was his sweet torture. His ecstasy built exponentially, but he needed more. He was rock hard and moments away from coming, he just needed that little push that would sent him over the edge and free himself of the pressure at his cock. And knew exactly how to get there. As John slipped out, he squeezed his muscles and John let out a beastly groan. The former caring look on John's face was gone.

His pace became erratic, yet it was precise and hit just where Sherlock needed. John took hold of his hips and lifted him a little bit up going even deeper than before. Sherlock's toes curled and took hold of the sheets and dragged them halfway off. John went harder, each push threw Sherlock a little bit behind until his head and shoulders were hanging from the edge of the bed. Sherlock's cock bounced between his legs, the need to come right now stronger than ever yet wanting to enjoy every millisecond close to John. The noises coming from the men were a sinful melody of moans, groans and flesh. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck as John left love bites across the white canvas of his skin.

"John, oh. God. Agh. John. John."

"Come on, Sherl. Ugh. Oh. Oh."

Sherlock's mind was reduced to John. His cock filling him up. The touch on his prostate by his thrusts. His hands on his hips, bruising the skin. It was too much. He was close. His nails dig into John's skin. His legs were starting to shake uncontrollably. He couldn't help himself and arched his back in pleasure. The moans his mouth produced drove John crazy and closer to the edge. God. The sound of his name being screamed by Sherlock. He took one of Sherlock's hands in his and laced their fingers together. Sherlock unconsciously placed their hands right above his heart. John felt the hard and demanding beat of his lover's heart and couldn't help but feel the warmth spreading across his own chest. He touched Sherlock's forehead with his and his other hand went to cup his cheek.

"Sherlock"

He look straight into John's eyes and came on his stomach and John's chest without touching himself. His name on his lips like a prayer. Not much after, he felt John coming inside him and then felt his hot mouth kissing his neck tenderly before standing up and cleaning them. He then went back to bed next to an exhausted Sherlock, who immediately draped a hand around John's middle and snuggled close to his chest. The rush of the moment left their bodies with every exhale, leaving only the peaceful melody of their heartbeats in the air. There was nothing to worry about at the moment. Time lost its meaning as the world muted its streets to let the two men relish in each other's arms. To finally have Sherlock's body, mind, soul and most importantly his heart, was ineffable to John. The mere thought of losing the person who saved him sent shivers down his spine and the pain in his chest was worse than the feeling of the bullet ripping through his skin seven years prior. He couldn't help but to bring Sherlock closer to him until he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat resonating through his very chest. He buried his nose into Sherlock's short hair and breathed in his scent. He felt Sherlock sigh heavily against his skin as his hand travelled to John's forearm. His fingers curling tightly around it. Sherlock's body tensed under his arms, he scolded himself for forgetting to reassure Sherlock. Under all his bravado, he noticed Sherlock always tried to be good for him, even though sometimes what he did wasn't exactly righteous. What could he say?

Sherlock felt John's hand caressing his back. The soft touch of his fingertips wrote reassurances on the blank page of his shoulders. He laced their legs together in an effort of being closer to his man and look for warmth.

"You're wonderful, Sherl," John said. His lips against Sherlock's scalp. There was a short moment of silence before both men started to giggle. John's laugh enveloped Sherlock in a warm cocoon, it made him forget about everything and simply enjoyed the present. To show his gratitude, Sherlock kissed his laugh from his lips. A tender touch of lips, in a slow and delicate pace that left goosebumps across their skin. Sherlock would later blame the oxytocin in his body for feeling safe, happy and loved. And most importantly, blame it for making him say his thoughts out loud.

 

"I am in love with you, John Watson", Sherlock avowed.

The next two seconds past like an incredibly slow scene.

Sherlock saw John frown. Felt him go tense. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.The clear sky look was gone and replaced by a cloudy blue stare. He was no longer staring at him. In two seconds, he reviewed the events of that night. Starting when they parted ways, agreed to meet at Angelo's and overheard John's conversation with his former therapist. And everything after.

\--------------

_Sherlock was paralysed in the dark alley after he heard the words John said to his former therapist. His brain was racing faster than it ever had. His lifetime with John Watson passed in front of his eyes in a matter of seconds. Every little detail carefully saved in his mind palace about the person he loved was dissected. Every facial expression, word and action. Not a single one of them escaped Sherlock's critical eye. Sure there were moments John was positively pissed, mad and definitely enraged but not a single moment did he questioned his friend's loyalty. Because he knew it was with him. But now? Was it him? Or had John changed more than Sherlock thought? Where exactly did it go wrong? Or failed to go right? What should he have done that he didn't? Why did John kiss, have sex and cuddled with him at all in the first place?_

_It was all a mess._

_Sherlock had shaken his head in order to clear it. There was not enough data. Scratch that. There was too much data and he didn't know where to start. Was he missing something? Was it in front of him? And most importantly, what was that strange feeling in his chest? His first impulse was to scream in frustration. No matter how many ways he put it, it didn't make sense. Was John becoming delusional? No. Not John. What was it? What was it? What was it?_

_What._

Was.

**It.**

_The sounds of the passing cars died along with the voices of the passersby to him. He was blind to the scenery of the city. Emptiness invaded his body but it were his thoughts that sent him falling down like a rock into oblivion as he came to a realization._

John does not love me. John Watson. Does. Not. Love me.

_He hadn't realised he was now sitting on the ground. Back against the dirty wall and knees braced by his arms. One of his hands clutching at his coat on his chest area. Trying to desperately hold onto John now, but knowing he couldn't. His brain was quiet for a moment. The feeling of his hart burning in acid overtook all his senses. He heard the beats slowing down as he felt it melt inside himself. He tasted the ashes on his tongue and he hated, hated, hated. He hated all of it._

_There was another voice, screaming at him it wasn't possible. It didn't make sense with his attitude. John came back. He cares, right? John wasn't the kind of person to blindly say harsh things for no reason. Or at all, when he felt justified. But why did he say that? He wouldn't be lying about such thing. But there was always that side of John who always worried._

"I'm glad no one saw that".

"Hm?"

"You ripping my clothes off in the dark in the swimming pool. People might talk". 

_Was he... was he afraid, ashamed of what they now were? That's why he told her that?_

_But if... if he really didn't love him, then why didn't he say anything at first? It would have been easier. How could Sherlock possibly let John go when he finally got a taste of him? Of nights in with John, cuddled in the sofa in silence? Of simply watching John get himself lost with a blank page and a pencil? Walk hand in hand with him on cold days to keep his hands warm because he always forgot his gloves? To feel John's lips against his and feel the kiss of the moonlight? To get drunk on the sight of John every night before falling asleep in his arms? Could John really be so heartless to do this?_

_That day when he finally saw John after 7 years in Australia he was able to read him like a book. John didn't have a particular problem with sleeping with women and leaving them later based on how regularly he found a new one. What if he was just another one? A passerby in John's sexual life? Is that all he wanted from him? No, John wouldn't ruin their friendship that way. Maybe it was to late, given that he had broken it many times. Revenge? John wasn't that type of man._

_**Facts.** _

_What were the facts?_

_\- John said he doesn't love him._  
\- They both agreed not to make it public.  
\- John seems happy with h-

_No. That was not a fact. He could read John like a book, what had happened? Why did feelings have to be subjective? There is little space for objectivity, how is he going to managed? There was only one thing he had to do._

_With trembling legs, he managed to stand up and walked to the main street. He stood in front of the door, debating whether it was a good idea or not. It was a bad idea. He turned back and took 6 steps before stopping. Would he really leave John now? The mere thought made him sick. He turned back again and stood in front of the door. He could do this.  
No, he couldn’t. His brain screamed at him to run. John just said it himself. He didn’t love him. It would be incredibly stupid for him to lower himself to such sentimental state, even with you. He turned back abruptly but stopped in his track. His heart knew best. He wanted John. He would live for John. But he had to know the truth behind his statement. The exact reasons. To at least know what exactly went wrong if they were to part ways._

Inhale. Exhale.

_With one final nod, he turned around again and pushed the door open._

_Perhaps it wasn't the wisest option. His mind took him back to their first night together with the cabbie. John was sitting in the exact same place by the window, staring outside. His white hair illuminated his surroundings like a torch in the dark. It was impossible for Sherlock not to look at him. He was playing with the menu card and he grinned softly at the void seat in front of him. His eyes were shinning bright and it took him no time for him to realize Sherlock had entered the restaurant. As his eyes met, John waved at him and a crooked smiled crossed his features. Beautiful, was the first word Sherlock could think of._

_“Sherlock!”_

_The familiar voice of the old man said. He turned around to find a much older but no less charismatic Angelo who immediately enveloped him in his arms._

_“Owh, Sherlock! You don’t know how old you make me feel. You haven’t changed a thing!”, said Angelo as he hugged him even harder. Sherlock returned the hug stiffly. “Where have you been? John told me you came from Samoa. How was that?”_

_“I can tell you anything you want if you could just stop hugging me”, Sherlock said a little breathless. For a man his age, he was surprisingly strong._

_“Oh, don’t worry.” His arms loosened his grip from Sherlock’s body. “I managed to convince John to publish everything on his blog. The restaurant’s full, should be working now. I’m glad to see you two”._

_“Congratulations for your grandson”._

_“I won’t ask how you know that. But thank you. Anything on the menu, Sherlock.”_

_“Thank you, Angelo.”_

_With a last clap to his shoulder, Angelo left. Sherlock stood there for a couple of seconds, unsure to walk to the table and sit. But if he wanted answers, he had to go and talk to John. That was what people did, right? Discuss these matters over dinner? How should he begin? Should he do it straight away or wait until they ate? Truthfully, Sherlock wasn’t hungry. He was afraid he would throw it all up in a matter of seconds. He felt nauseous with the entire situation and all he really wanted to do was to run away and forget everything. But he couldn’t. He wanted to know, needed answers the way he needed John. He wanted to understand what he was doing wrong, to know if it was him the reason John didn’t love him. Why he didn’t. ___

_His feet felt like lead. Every step he took to the table was painful. The fear of knowing the truth grew exponentially in his being. Was it him? John stared cautiously at him, looking for something. He was afraid too. Was he being too obvious?_

_“Sherlock, are you okay? Why are you so late?”_

_Late? Was he late? A quick glance to his watch told him he was 27 minutes late. Did he spent so much time outside?_ God.

_“I’m fine. No, I just. I just lost track of time. It seems.” He took a seat. “How’s Harry?”_

_John frowned._ NOH, that was out of character. Concentrate. _“She’s fine”, he replied anyways. “Should be alright in two days at least”._

_“That’s good. Very good indeed.”_

Great. I am babbling now. Just what I need. _John smiled over the table._

_“I missed you”. John said softly._

Did you really? _Was the first thing he thought. But a quick analysis of the statement and John’s expression told him he was indeed telling the truth._ Fuck you, John Watson.

_“Me too”, his voice came out too fast and incomprehensible. John laughed. Probably he’d mistaken his reply as nervousness. He licked his lips._

_“I didn’t order because I thought you weren’t coming anymore.”_ I wasn’t, Watson. But I love you too much to leave you. _“You had me a bit preoccupied already. I thought something happened.”_ You know exactly what happened. _“You okay? You look a little pale.”_ Yes, I am. You just said you don’t love me to your therapist. I’m over the moon.

_“Yes, John. I think I just haven’t eaten in a while. Shall we order?”_

_To Sherlock’s surprise, John seemed more than at ease with himself. And as the conversation flowed, the food came and their laughter filled the restaurant; he forgot the reason why he was mad at John. Every time he smiled, made his heart jumped. The way he looked at him, took him back to the beginning of their friendship. His touch made him remembered of what John could do with his hands on his bare skin. John laughed at his jokes, engaged him in conversation and looked at him as if he was the king of the world. How could he ruin such a perfect evening and a pleased John with that monstrous news? He couldn’t drop the bombshell tonight. He didn’t want this to end._

_Maybe… just maybe this would work. If they dialogued the problem… they would be alright._

_Angelo brought a fine wine to their table. John was flushed and was giggling like a schoolgirl. The mere sight brought Sherlock happiness. But he had to do it. He had to be strong. He could take this. Rejection was something he was used to since he was a kid. He could take it from John. He’d take it before. But he’d always come back. What if this time he didn’t? Sherlock would survive, sure. But he wouldn’t live. There was one way to know it._

_“John…”, he started. John looked at him with those shinning eyes. Pupils dilated. “I have to ask you something important.” John’s expression was suddenly serious and stretched both his hands to hold Sherlock’s._

_“Tell me, Sherl.”_

_The way John looked at him. God. He couldn’t do it._

_“How do you see yourself in the future?”, he asked instead. “And be honest with me.” He paused. “Please.”_

_John’s features softened. A warm smile made its way through his face. It was the smile he gave only to Sherlock. John brought one of Sherlock’s hands to his lips and kissed it vehemently. “With you, Sherl. I see all my days for the rest of my life with you. Whatever you want to do next, I’ll be there. I swear, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock knew it was true. And at that moment, it was enough for him._

_“Let’s go home.”_

_Subconsciously, he knew it was a terrible idea. As soon as they came home, John had pinned him against the wall and kissed him brutally. Sherlock was no one to denied John’s kisses. If anything, he wanted and needed them more than oxygen itself. He forgot about everything as John marked him with his hands and kisses. Clothes were discarded, plates were broken and doors were pushed down. Then… John kissed him once again. And it felt different than the other times he’d kissed him. He felt John’s passion, heart and devotion in that kiss. He felt loved._  
\-----------------

_Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid._

Why on earth did he say that?

Before he could retract from saying those words, John embraced him and placed his ear above his heart.

“Goodnight, love.” John said tenderly.

Sherlock’s mind raced with possibilities. What on earth was he thinking? That John would declare his love once he’d penetrated him? That some kisses would fix everything and John would magically say those words back?

_Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. ___

Minutes past and Sherlock was becoming more and more frustrated with the subject at hand. But how could he deny John when he was being so charming? He simply couldn’t. He started to think he would never be able to bring the subject up. Besides, what if he lived in that fantasy? Oblivious to that simple statement. Would it be wrong when John had the choice to just leave at any moment? He wasn’t Sherlock’s hostage. He was his friend and he told him he would agree with whatever he chose. What was John playing at? It physically pained him. He felt tired.

Unless... _Disguise is always a self-portrait_

A quick glance at John told him he was asleep. Carefully, he unwrapped himself from John’s arms and walked outside. Every step away from John seemed like treason, which essentially shouldn’t be but somehow was. The cold air welcomed him with its freezing touch, but Sherlock paid no mind to his nudity and kept walking with a fast pace until he locked himself in the bathroom. As soon as his feet touched the cold tiles, he fell to the ground. He had no strength to get up, a mere born baby with the inability to properly control his movements. What he was feeling was too much for him to handle. All his feelings were getting out of his body in the form of tears. His entire body had started to shake; his heart was pounding out of his chest. He wanted to scream but choked on his words. The sweat of his body left a shiny trail on the tiles. A new hot wave of fear washed his body taking his sight with it. 

_John, don’t leave me._ He whispered to the darkness in between sobs. Holding onto John's sketchbook for dear life as he fell prisoner of his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG CAN YOU ALL BELIEVE THE NEXT WILL BE THE LAST CHAPTER?!
> 
> Idk. I won't make any promises. Do you want a happy ending? Fine... Do you think they will break up? Fine for me too... 
> 
> You guys just have to wait and see. And prepare yourself because it's a massive chapter. (idk What you consider long but it definitely is to me. My chapters are normally 2k-4k. The next one will more than double it).
> 
> If you like the story so far (which I doubt, I've been messing with you all for a long time and haven't given you what you want) don't forget to leave kudos. If you like to express your opinion, complaint or point something out feel free to comment. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs, questions, confrontations, dogs, road trips and Reichenbach Falls pt.2?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOOO YEAAAAAAH. Last chapter, folks. This is the longest chapter to date (I mean 14k. What more could you possibly want? Unless what you want is for me to break it into 4 chapters, as I had originally planned?). Anywaweeeees. I'm late, I know but I should tell you I was overseas. Sorry for my lateness. 
> 
> Yeah, this is a long chapter with (hopefully, you consider) a lot of angst and drama. (Hey, I live for drama. I breathe drama). And ultimately the ending of the story and we'll finally get the answer to _"What the fuck is wrong with you John Frigging Watson?!"_
> 
> I know... 2 months?! SOOOOO LATE. I know I set a day to post this, but that never happened, I got sent to somewhere in the Caribbean no one has probably heard of. Then I came back and I just... I was afraid of posting this. There was something holding me back, but really I don't know what it was. So I was following this awesome fic for months now and hadn't checked in a while so when I came back I was sooo eager to read the new updates because the fic was updated pretty regularly and so I was... Of course she updated! But... She hadn't. I was so mad. And then I realised you guys must be feeling that way too. Then I read through all your lovely comments and I knew I had to post the chapter and be done. So yeah...
> 
> I babbled for a long time, haven't I?
> 
> Anyways! TIME TO READ. (That is, if you even read the note. I wouldn't tbh)

John's side felt empty and inexplicably cold when mere minutes ago he was feeling warm and cosy. Something was definitely missing. He remembered hearing the ruffling of the sheets and the door clos-

Sherlock, of course.

It had just been some days since that night but he could feel how right it felt. How natural it all came when dealing in the new waters of their relationship. This was what was missing. What they should have done years ago and they probably could have avoided more than half the problems they encountered. Right. He wasn't going to dwell on the past. Sherlock was with him now. Nothing else mattered as long as he could be with him in the present and his future.

John stretched himself in order to be more awake and wait for Sherlock's return to the bed. But the minutes grew in seconds, there was no sign or sound from the detective and he was starting to wonder what his partner was doing exactly. John doubted he would take so long in the bathroom. Besides, the man was still an owl. His curiosity wasn't going to let him rest until he had some answers and the idea of checking on Sherlock wasn't unattractive.

Lazily, he managed to get off the bed, put Sherlock's dressing gown and ventured himself outside the confines of the bedroom. He went immediately to the library, where Sherlock was most likely to be. However, the room was ghostly quiet. It was at this moment that John realised how silenced the entire house seemed to be and his heart rate started to increase as he checked room by room and was met with nothing else but silence. He was very awake by the time he reached the bathroom door and heard a low murmur from the other side. He'd called his partner's name but John heard nothing but a broken sob. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and John wasted no time to open the door. This was stopped by something when John looked down, it took him less than a second to identify Sherlock's head and one to see him sprawled naked on the floor.

"Shit".

"John-"

In the blink of an eye, John was kneeling next to the man. He was hugging his knees and was shivering very violently. His breaths came in short rapid successions and he often choked on the air. John was so preoccupied, he didn't bother to be gentle as he lifted Sherlock's torso and held the man close. Sherlock was trembling like a leaf in the middle of a storm. His face was wet, no doubt from the tears running down his face. He was sweating so much, John had a hard time managing to hold Sherlock and he could see the glistening wet spot Sherlock's side had left on the floor. John wasted no time to check on Sherlock, several possibilities ran through his mind, the next worst than the previous. He'd narrowed them down to four and Sherlock seemed to sense his struggle despite what was happening and managed to speak in between his shaking sobs and chattering teeth.

"Pa-pan-ic".

"Shhhh... Okay. Okay". John was relieved it wasn't anything worse but his priority was now with Sherlock. "I'm here, Sherlock". He brought Sherlock close to his chest in such a way that his ear was just above John's heart. He knew the sound calmed a tiny figure in his past when she felt stressed and John reasoned it would work with him. The rhythm would sound steady and familiar. It would soothe him. "Listen to my heartbeats, Sherlock", he said as one of his hands brushed Sherlock's hair from his forehead back. "Focus on them, love", his voice and appearance were calm but inside it was aching at seeing beloved wrecked. "One, two. Three, four". After a minute or two, Sherlock was still in the same state. His baby girl would sometimes be like this, in those times, Mary cocooned her in her arms and sang to her.

_"We'll do it all",_ John didn't realise when he started singing.

_"Anything",_ nor that his voice calmed the sobbing man.

_"On our own"._ The lyrics danced out of his lips cautiously.

_"We don't need",_ he was scared to startle the fragile figure in his hands.

_"Anything",_ he whispered calmly against Sherlock's forehead.

_"Or anyone"_ He got himself lost in the lyric and in the caresses he gave Sherlock.

_"If I lay here. If I just lay here"_ , he kept singing. _"Would you lie with me and just forget the world?_ " or more like whispering the song at his own slow pace.

_"I don't quite know",_ maybe his voice broke at this moment.

_"How to say", _he couldn't tell.__

_"How I feel",_ but god he felt.

_"Those three words"_ , he also felt the now calmed breathing of Sherlock against his chest.

_"Are said too much",_ the sweat had gone cold against his skin and his eyes were closed.

_"They're not enough",_ he wrapped his arms more tightly around Sherlock.

_"If I lay here if I just lay here", _John lost track of time, caught up in comforting Sherlock until the man had fallen asleep in his arms. carefully unwrapped the dressing gown from his body and covered Sherlock with it.__

They spent the night like that: John holding him as he slept and staring down at his figure, enduring the pain of being in the same position for hours until Sherlock woke up hours later.

* * *

He remembered feeling the uncomfortable pain in his back before opening his eyes. He felt sticky and tired than ever and all he wanted to do was sleep. He slowly opened his eyes to find himself in the arms of John Watson and it took him a moment to realise what they were doing in the bathroom. How embarrassing. He could see John didn't even sleep and his face was a mixture of concern and relief. He didn't say anything but his thoughts were like an advertisement plastered to his forehead.

"I'm fine", he said. The words sounded loud in the quiet room, even though they were a whisper. It only helped him to remember how big his lie was.

"Sher-"

"Nothing triggered it", he said more forcefully than necessary. He took a deep breath to chill down. "You know they can happen for no reason".

John nodded, he could see John hadn't believed a word but merely nodded, marking the end of their conversation. He then stood up and left John on the floor. Neither of them talked about it, Sherlock decided to ignore it and John didn't say a word. Whether it was because he truly understood that Sherlock didn't want to talk about it or not, Sherlock didn't know. But it was fine as long as the memory didn't linger in his mind from time to time. Their routine stayed much the same. They would walk across a new area of the city and the stop for breakfast. In those walks, Sherlock would tune John out and go to his mind palace. He noticed John knew what he was doing and questioned when John had become so good at reading him. He was probably becoming more careless.

Apart from that, Sherlock would lock himself in the library and get lost with one of his experiments. He often forgot to eat and drink or take a shower for that mattered and he didn't see John that often throughout the day. He would only come out at night and sleep next to John, because, after all, he couldn't bring himself to be so much time apart from him.

Sherlock knew John's routine by heart. After breakfast, he would walk around until he found something worth drawing and he would spend one to three hours sketching. Then for some inexplicable reason, John would find someone to talk to. Surprisingly, he always found one. In the afternoon, John would go to the gym religiously and often tried to get Sherlock along with him. The mere idea was ridiculous. The only reason he would go to a gym is to punch someone in the face in a ring. And Sherlock didn't trust himself not to punch John over and over again until he decided to tell Sherlock the truth. For that reason, it was a big no.

Exactly a week later, everything exploded. Sherlock calculated John was asleep and entered the room without making many noises, knowing that John was still a light sleeper. John was sleeping on his side, hugging a pillow tightly to his chest, his breathing was even and Sherlock knew it was safe for him to get under the covers and spoon John from behind.

"What's happening, Sherlock?", John's voice startled him.

"I thought you were asleep", he swallowed heavily. John moved around until he was facing him.

"Sherlock, I'm serious", he said looking into his eyes.

"So am I".

"What is it?" One of his hand came to rest against Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, you haven't been yourself lately".

"Non-sense".

"Then explain it to me. What is bothering you? You isolate yourself in a room, you don't eat, you keep playing your violin at all times. You're thinking Sherlock, I want to know what".

"Why?" He could see the pain in John's eyes. The insecurities. He needed to know.

"Because... Because"

"You don't trust me", the words came out of him.

"Sherlock-"

"No, I saw this coming", he cut John short and stared away from the man's blue eyes.

"Sherlock, look at me. I trust you with my life. I trust you with my whole life. But we're in this together, I don't want to, I don't want us to be apart. And whatever you have in your head is a wall between us".

"It's nothing, John", he tried to assure him. Knowing if he were to tell John Watson it would be the end of everything.

"It is", John pressed,

"Since when do you care?", the words came out harshly and it took him a moment to realise his mistake.

"I've always cared and whatever it is, if what troubles you is about us, you've got to tell me because you can't solve it on your own this time. We have to solve it together".

"Stop insisting", his voice was broken at this point and he turned his back to John.

"Sherlock", John reached for him but he shrugged the hand off his shoulder but John wasn't discouraged. "I want you with me".

"I'm afraid that's the problem", he replied.

"Do you trust me?" There was a certain hope in John's voice but Sherlock did not hesitate on shattering it too, just for John to get a small taste of what he was feeling.

"How can I know that after everything we've been through?"

"I'm here", John replied immediately.

"That's not enough", Sherlock attacked.

"What do you need?" The question sounded so genuinely and true and Sherlock Holmes almost fell for it.

"I need you to-" he'd started saying. "I need you to" but he was no fool. "Forget it".

"Sherl-", John started but Sherlock snapped.

"I said forget it John!", John went immobile against him as soon as the words left his mouth. There's a reason for my actions, you know that", he'd continued. "If I think it's better to keep things this way, it's because I'm right". He felt John moving away from him, the dip of the bed and the hard pacing of John.

"Yes, because last time worked wonderfully", he heard the door being open and couldn't stop himself to raise his head from the pillow and search for John. Panic rising in his chest.

"Where are you going?"

"We're talking tomorrow when both of us stop behaving like toddlers", John replied calmly but he saw the fire in his eyes. "I will sleep in the other room. Goodnight".

Sherlock heard him lock himself into his former room. He wanted to follow, to argue, to scream at the top of his lungs but something held him back. And he knew exactly what it was. He couldn't loose him. Three times was enough. He should fix this. He would fix it. But how? He felt tempted to go to John and see him again. John was awake, there was no doubt he wasn't going to fall asleep that night. The entire idea of talking to him seemed quite obvious now but what was he going to say? He simply couldn't say what he really meant John would go. John's warmth was still on the other side of the bed and he couldn't wish for anything else than John being next to him. This was the reason he never said anything to John, at all. He knew, deep down, it will only bring problems. When the heart is laying on the table, there's no much one can do to protect it. Especially when one gives it to someone. For now, he should keep it to himself until he found a better solution.

Being there without John seemed wrong. He couldn't stand the sight of a half-empty bed without a warm familiar body next to his. With a painful sigh, he got up and walked out of the room to the corridor. His eyes landed on the door where John was hiding and his feet walked towards it.

Maybe he should let it all out.

He stared vacantly at the door but in the end, never managed to have the courage to raise his hand and knock on the door and called John's name. Instead, he turned around and went inside the library. He paced the room for several minutes dissecting the discussion they just had. John made it seem like Sherlock was indeed the one with the problem. Was it really him? An auto analysis was in order. But the more he analysed the situation, the more blurry it became. Human emotion. What a bizarre concept to him. How did millions of people manage to be in a relationship? Was it like this with each one of them? How could people live with the uncertainty of the other person's reactions? But John... John hadn't really changed. Not his core, at least. There was something else, then. Maybe it was obvious and that's why he couldn't see it. He threw himself on the armchair in the corner. His mind was a machine right now, running at its fastest speed and was about to explode at any time. Apart from that, there was something deep in his stomach. The void seemed to only get bigger and bigger every time he took a breath and was trying to swallow him whole. It was distracting.

He immediately stood up and walked over one of the cabinets of the desk and opened it. In it, there was the small cigarette package his brother kept to entertain himself in the rare moments he came here. Not his favourite brand but that must do. He was already looking for a lighter when the voice talked: "Sherlock". He turned immediately around looking the familiar voice of the man but found nothing. He looked down at his hand holding both the package and lighter and he realised the voice had come from his head. John, wouldn't like that. It took a huge amount of his willpower to set them back. His veins crawled for nicotine but he would abstain himself from it. He walked to the familiar old case of his Stradivarius and only stared at it for some moments. If he played, John was sure to hear the tune and wouldn't sleep but sleep wasn't coming John's way so he decided to play something that won't get him angry, at least. Or angrier than he already is. It had to be something soothing, even though all his fingers wanted was to revive his violent and anguish thoughts in a tune. But he would play something nice for John. Something that made John feel that his heart was still with John.

He played the violin with a devotion he hadn't feel in almost ten years. Playing in the middle of the night with close to no external sounds was like a balm to the wounds of his heart. At first, he held back the urge to just play an atrocious tune but as time went on, the soft melancholic tune came naturally to him. It was a part he hadn't yet explored because he was too afraid to follow that path. Now, there was nothing holding him back. He played until his finger were bright red and scratched and the sunlight forced him to open his eyes.

He stood there, violin and bow at his sides, staring vacantly through the window. Until the compact form of John appeared walking on the street, towards the door. When did John go out? Where was he? Why was a dog following him?

* * *

Sherlock's medley did nothing more but to twist his insides in the most painful of ways. As he lay on the bed and listened to the tune, his mind couldn't stop racing. He had been a jerk. The last words he'd said, god. No wonder Sherlock was distracting himself with the violin. John wasn't sure how he would have reacted had their places been reversed. He would have probably hit Sherlock right in the nose for being such a bastard. But as it was, it was him who said them. It was no wonder Sherlock was playing the violin in order to distract himself. To make matters worse, the tune shifted to a slow rhythm. Almost like a whisper right to John's ear. It was too much to handle, his judgment was blurry, his heart was troubled and his soul lost. Which is why he dressed quickly and ventured himself outside in the late night.

He walked mindlessly, not paying attention to anything around him. His walk was brisk as if he was trying to lose someone like the many times he'd done in the years working with Sherlock. To some extent, this was true. He was escaping but not from someone. He was escaping his thoughts. This, however, proved to be in vain. His thoughts came back to Sherlock time and time again.

Defeated, he took a seat on one of the benches in a park and tried to relax. He had not realised the sun was coming up until now. There were already some pedestrians going for their work, the dedicated marathon runners and the dog walkers on the street. He stared at each one of them, envying their seemingly planned and easy life. That is not true, he reminded himself. He knew how boring that life was but right there, he couldn't wish more for less drama in his life. In such a delicate moment, that was all he hoped for.

His thoughts rotated in his head for some time until he became aware of the figure sitting on the bench next to him. It was large. And wet. And he was staring intently at John with its sad eyes as though waiting for him to say something. John wasn't one to talk about his problems with others but the huge red fur Saint Bernard didn't qualify as a person and would never tell someone. So, what was the harm? Before he could stop himself, the words came out of his mouth.

"He's a righteous bastard, you know?" The dog stared at him. "He makes me come back and now he's acting like this. Does it make sense to you?", John wasn't expecting an answer and kept talking. "Well, most of him never makes sense, if I am honest but I've always trusted him. He's careful with everything, I know. But it frustrates me not knowing anymore. It won't work like that I'm scared of him breaking me again. Maybe all of it was a stupid idea. I'm not prepared to be in a relationship with Sherlock. But God help me, I'm not going anywhere. If he is to go one last time... I wouldn't- Not this time". He takes a deep breath and looks around, struggling to find the words. "Sherlock seems more down to earth now. He's changed so much. It's him, though. I know. It seems like he's enjoying the small things. I don't know what happened these last years, but sometimes when I look at him, I see that he's scared. Scared and a certain emptiness. I want to take those feelings and guard him against whatever he has in his mind because I can't take it. It makes my skin crawl seeing him like that. He's the best man I've ever known, he deserves better. But what am I? How can I help when he doesn't tell me? Or guide me like he normally does?"

All his frustration started to evaporate and let place to a feeling of nervousness and insecurity. He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands and proceeded to let out a long and shaky breath.

"He's not going to tell me, is he? He never talks about his personal life, let alone his feelings. Maybe he needs time? Maybe it truly is a non-sense?" The dog stretches and lays on the bench with its head on John's lap. "I'll take that as a yes. I'll give him time. He always comes around to what needs to be done". John brings his hand on top of its head and scratched softly. "I should take you to Sherlock", he says more to himself. "You managed to get all of that off me, maybe you could do the same with him". The dog made an unmistakable whine, making John chuckle. "Okay, I won't take you to him if you don't want", it was only then that it really struck John. "In fact, I should take you to your owner". John started to look for some indication of a collar, but the dog had none. The dog was wet, dirty, a bit underweight. It seemed like it had some time on the streets. In the short 3 minute conversation he had, John found he didn't really want to leave the poor creature there alone.  
John had a plan: if the dog followed him willingly back to the house, he was going to keep it.

"Right", said he before standing up and walking home. He didn't need to look behind to know the dog was following him. He could hear his claws against the pavement and the dog sniffing things. There was a stupid smile on his face and he couldn't hide it. And as they came closer to the house, the bigger it grew. They stopped at the entrance, John looked down at the dog, he had to name it now. He was about to insert the key in the keyhole when the door was abruptly open from the inside.

"John", said Sherlock dryly. He had not considered Sherlock's reaction to a stray dog.

"Oh, hey!", he replied nervously, big smile still on.

"A dog was following you", Sherlock stated.

John looked down at his new companion. "Yeah".

"Wh-", Sherlock never finished. The dog walked passed him and into the house. Sherlock merely followed the dog's path with his eyes.

"I'm keeping it", he said and walked into. He heard Sherlock close the door.

"John!", he heard Sherlock exclaim but paid no attention as he walked to the living area and propped himself down the sofa. "Why exactly are you keeping it? In all the years with you, I haven't heard you muttered a word for your love for dogs and now out of nowhere you come home with one". Sherlock was standing right in front of him, expression very confused and his eyes fixed on John. John who wasn't one to back off was finding the entire situation hilarious. That was until they heard a hard sound coming from the library.

"Shit", he'd said. In less than a second, Sherlock was already halfway across the living room. John followed immediately, just behind Sherlock. When they entered the room it was to find one of the bookshelves and all its books scattered on the floor. The dog was in a sitting position, tail moving from side to side, tongue out. Looking at them as if nothing had happened.

"We can't", said Sherlock after exactly five seconds.

"Look at it, Sherlock", he'd said softly as he walked towards the dog. "Look at his eyes", he squatted down next to the dog and scratched just behind his ears. "He's asking for help and you're denying it. I get it why you do it to people but dogs are smart".

"John, you're babblin-"

"For me, Sherlock".

"Fine, but I'm not taking care of him", he turned away. "By the way, John. You just offended him by calling Armani by calling him an 'it"

"I'm going to buy it some stuff", John continued mindlessly. You're coming with me?" John asked.

"HIM!"

"What?", John asked confused. Sherlock sighed heavily. 

"Fine".

* * *

"No".

"No?" John asked a little exasperated. "What do you mean no? It's a dog's product, meant to be used on a dog".

"Read the tag, look how many chemicals it has. It'll thin his fur. What are these people thinking when making these products? Look", he snatched a 5-litre shampoo from the aisle. "this one's better".

John took the bottle from Sherlock's hands and as soon as he spotted the price his eyebrows went high. "Sherlock this costs more than my shoes".

"I know, I still don't understand why you keep buying cheap stuff that never last", he said dismissively. "100% pure essential oils and no petrochemicals or synthetic fragrances. This is the one", he announced triumphantly. "Finally some actually see the need for an all-natural product line! John, I think we need a trolley, the basket won't do".

John only took a deep breath. What did he get himself into? If only John knew that was the beginning of a completely different Sherlock.

When they got back home, Armani was waiting for them right behind the door, tail scraping the floor soundly, head inclined, ready to be patted. John was no one to deny his new friend this, so he did. Sherlock suggested for the dog to eat first but John was not having a dirty dog running, sniffing, sleeping around Mycroft's house. If he was to come, he'll surely fall into a breakdown at having his things not only moved by them but dirty. It was time for them to start house hunting. Losing no time, John and Armani made their way to the bathroom. Or rather, John tried to make Armani get into the bathroom. It- sorry- HE preferred to sit on the armchair opposite of Sherlock and stare at said detective. Apparently, they were having some sort of staring contest and it wasn't until John stood in between that the both of them noticed him. Five minutes and many pushes later, John managed to get the dog inside the room. The water was warm, shampoo was ready and he had the fluffiest and thickest towel with him.

With a decisive look, John tried to slowly introduce Armani to the water but at the first contact, the dog, who was previously sitting and lovingly looking at John, sprang out of the tub and managed to run past John in the process. Thankfully, the door was closed and Armani didn't escape but the dog was stubborn and John really didn't know how he managed to get the creature wet because it felt more like throwing water and shampoo to a running massive dog than what usual baths go. Finally, John had succeeded in applying shampoo and washing his thick fur (making a rather big soapy mess of every inch of the room. The ceiling didn't escape the apparent war either) and it was then when the door open carefully and a brown haired head peeked inside.

"Oh", was all he said as his eyes took the image in front of him. And it was only then that John actually looked at the room. Not only was shampoo on the ceiling, but everywhere. Water covered almost every inch of the floor and the walls were decorated with thick stripes of shampoo and foam. And John, who had not taken a step inside the tub was completely soaked. From head to toe. Hair plastered to his scalp, foam on one side of his face, shirt and trousers clinging to his figure. While Armani just stood there, waving his tail and covered in a mountain of shampoo foam. They both stared at Sherlock expectantly, unsure.

"Hi", John said nervously and this seemed to get Sherlock out of his shocked state.

"Fine", Sherlock said. Although, John wasn't sure to what exactly. Sherlock stepped inside, at this Armani moved his tail faster and his attention was fully on Sherlock. John was giving Armani "the look". When his gaze came down to fix on Sherlock, he only had his pants on.

"Wh-", John started but never got the chance to finish because as soon as Sherlock's feet touched the tub, Armani jumped inside of it. John stared in utter shock for a full minute as Sherlock accommodated himself and Armani and started to properly wash him. Sherlock had a determined look on his face and Armani seemed like he was enjoying his bath very much. How was this even possible? Armani had come home with him but as soon as he left the two of them for two hours, Armani had chosen his owner and no doubt it was the man in the tub. What a traitor. John, as crossed as he wanted to be with his own dog (yes, because he brought it -him home) couldn't show those feelings because the image in front of him made his heart beaten faster than necessary. Sherlock stole his dog. He burst into laughter. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, hands still on Armani's side before he himself started laughing.

"You know this. You've had a dog before", says John as he is recovering from his laughter.

"Detective work, John. Having a dog is invaluable".

"You've never owned a dog as far as I know".

"A man needs to keep some secrets", he smirked sideways but John read an entire story in Sherlock's eyes.

"I never thought you were one to keep pets", he comments casually.

"I'm not", Sherlock fell silent and turned his head to look directly at John. "They'll leave you at the end of the day. No matter how much time you spend with them, take care of them, play, love. They are bound to leave you", he turns his eyes to Armani. "Just like everything else", he whispered.

John had nothing to say. He was too shocked to reply as he realised the words were meant for him.

After the bath, John cleaned the bathroom and Sherlock started to cook. Only not for them, he cooked for Armani under the excuse of "No dog under this roof will eat jelly crap and chewy nuggets made of sand". John left him be. They ate leftovers for dinner, John ignored the look all dogs have when they want something but Sherlock simply couldn't resist and let him eat half his dish. John merely rolled his eyes. After dinner, he watched some telly, took a shower and readied himself for bed. Only to find it empty of warmth and filled with the memories of last's night argument. He sighed heavily and threw himself on the bed. There was no way Sherlock was coming. The little confession Sherlock made in the bathroom jumped in front of his mind. He was fairly certain there was a message there for him judging by the look Sherlock had given him. Was Sherlock doubting their relationship? Was it even a relationship? Of course, it was a relationship, John had been in a relationship with Sherlock since day one. Although not a romantic one but a relationship nonetheless surely the fact that they now slept on the same bed and did everything else together like normal couples do mean they were in a romantic relationship. But they didn't have the talk. Are Sherlock and him on the same page?

But that wasn't it, right? Sherlock wanted to tell him something but held back. Why did he hold himself back? Was it that he- OH. Stupid. He should have seen this coming. There was only one way for Sherlock to trust him back. And he was going to earn that right back. With renewing energies, he walked out of the room to find Sherlock and proceed with step one. Two more to go.

* * *

Sherlock could hear John's steps outside, pacing anxiously. He expected John to bring their little feud sometime soon and he was surprised he hadn't as soon as he came back with the dog. Sherlock knew John had made his mind, to what decision it was yet to be seen. He kept busy, pretending to be typing on the computer as not to raise suspicions of what he was truly doing and John opened the door shortly. His breath got caught, his focus left him momentarily and cause him to make a huge typo. He didn't know what to do.

"Sherlock?", a hand touched his arm, bringing him back at the moment. When had that happened? He blinked several times before looking at John out of the corner of his eye.

"John", his voice sounded rough to his ears. He heard John swallowing, registered the slight movement of John clenching and unclenching his fist. He expected the rise of John's head, the set jaw and the determined look on his face as he's seen dozens of time throughout their life together. Instead, John lowered his head and ventured to take Sherlock's left hand in his. The touch of his friend was almost like a ghost against his skin, it wasn't until several minutes after that he seemed to form his mind and slowly intertwined their fingers together. John's thumb shyly caressing the back of his hand. It was only then that John, too, had been holding his breath and let it out brokenly.

"I'm sorry", John whispered. "I- I shouldn't have pushed you. Last night", Sherlock felt John's eyes rising curiously at him but he made no attempt tp divert his gaze from their hands. "I am in no position to tell you what to do. It's just that I'm learning again. I'm learning how to trust you again. But know that I will be here, I will always be here if you want anything cause Sherlock I am not going anywhere".

At that moment, all Sherlock was able to do was to squeeze John's hand back. The fine line between logic and emotion he'd always had with John was broken.

"Thank you", he said cautiously.

John's other hand came to rest on his nape, Sherlock was tugged tenderly downwards and his nose was buried in John's neck. Strong arms made their way around Sherlock and held him tightly. Sherlock's own arms imitated John's and something warm built in his chest. It made him return the hug stronger. "You're tired", he heard John say against his chest.

"I am", he admitted.

"Let's sleep".

John lead the way to the bedroom, where an unsurprisingly energetic Armani followed them and gave them a difficult time falling asleep as Armani and Sherlock wanted the dog to sleep on the bed and John definitely didn't but the latter gave up the fight. Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately, drained both physically, mentally and emotionally and didn't notice when John spooned him.

New year's came the day after with a cheerful John and a lazy dog. After that night, John had been acting differently. There were fleeting kisses, kind touches, laughter, home cooked dinners, new board games and longer walks. John insisted on doing things together which meant eating, sleeping, showering, reading, drawing, watching telly, walk and play with the dog. John even started helping him with his experiments. He would make insightful comments and give feedback. Sherlock would listen and help him more.

John was involved with him now. Everything seemed to be going fine, John was making an effort and Sherlock at the same time humoured him although it felt like he genuinely wanted to make John happy. The problem that haunted him was shoved to the back of his mind, John might have changed his opinion after all. He could see this was what John wanted and there was nothing to worry about.

On second thought, Sherlock had noticed a pattern. Every day since That Night, John would go at 1600 sharp somewhere for about two hours. Sherlock thought he would go out to draw as he'd been doing for the last month. However, on the 5th of January, John came home stinking of women's perfume.

* * *

Step 2 had gone wonderfully. Sherlock's eyes resembled that of their first night together in "A study in Pink" and he couldn't feel more accomplished of himself. Sherlock seemed well distracted as to his random trips these days and didn't mention a word but he knew he couldn't hide his step 3 forever because Sherlock saw right through him. Or at least suspected something was going on. As he walked into the room on the 5th of that month, Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. Of course, he would. He was incapable of hiding something like this to Sherlock. He expected Sherlock to start deducing his whereabouts and everything he had planned for his birthday the next day straight away. Instead, he came closer, looked at him up and down and said: "I'll be out tonight". He grabbed his coat and left without a word.

John waited for him till midnight before falling asleep on the sofa.

He woke up 6 hours later, he checked the room and there was still no sight of Sherlock. The sight of a neatly made bed without a long pale body made his body shiver. He kept telling himself Sherlock was okay. He called Mycroft asking for his whereabouts and was told Mycroft had his eye on him and that there was nothing to worry about. This calmed him down enough to start making breakfast. It didn't calm Armani who took a guard in front of the door for when his owner arrived.

Sherlock entered quietly if it weren't for Armani's paws against the floor and Sherlock ordering him to stop his licking John wouldn't have noticed.

"Hey, Sherlock", he said with a mouthful of toast when Sherlock entered the kitchen. Sherlock looked at him and went to the fridge not uttering a word. "How was your night?"

At this, Sherlock's back stiff and he turned around to face John. "How was my night?", he hissed. "I should ask you how your trips were then", he gave John a sarcastic smile. John saw the detective was kind of stressed, he wasn't going to fight again. He promised. John stood up from his place and walked over to Sherlock with the most stupid smile plastered on his face. He grabbed the man's face and brought it down to kiss his forehead soundly.

"Happy birthday, love". He said and proceeded to kiss him on the lips. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and John giggled. "You know, we're not doing parties this time if that's what you think. I have other plans". Sherlock seemed at a total loss. John felt awkward as Sherlock merely stared at him, he broke the contact and sat back. "You hungry? I left you breakfast".

Sherlock turned around looking for something. "No, no. I'm fine", he said distractedly.

"Hmm, okay", John said. "Well, I planned something for today. We're leaving midday".

Sherlock merely hummed and locked himself in the studio. Armani seemed to sense something was wrong because his naturally sad face was incredibly sad this time.

By midday, they were both in a car, Armani sat on the back. And Sherlock still hadn't said a word.

"Where are we going?", were his first words after 30 minutes.

"The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know where we are going?", he gave Sherlock a little smirk. "Damn, he must be very distracted by his drooly companion!", he twisted his arm to pat Armani on the head which was a bad idea because Armani licked his hand quite vigorously.

"Don't get Armani into this", defended Sherlock. "And he is our dog".

"Last time I checked, you were saying he was my responsibility".

"Which you didn't take seriously and I intervened. Wonderful job you did back then, John".

"I know!", John exclaimed. "I should train more dogs for a living".

"You'll be broke within 2 hours", Sherlock deadpanned.

"Not if I have you", John sang.

"I take it as you don't want to tell me where we're going".

"Can't you guess?", teased John.

"I never guess", he looked hurt. "I know we're going to the south, judging by the route you've taken we are more likely to go somewhere in Sussex but the exact-"

"Don't spoil! I knew you'll get bored!" John interrupted. "I brought some cold cases with me. They're in my backpack. If you solve all of them before we get there I'll give you a treat".

"I'm not... bored".

"Good. Then I'll assume you don't mind a little of Justin Bieber".

"Bieber?", Sherlock asked confused. John chuckled.

"You prefer Justin Timberlake?", he turned the radio on. One of those energetic more loud and noise than music songs was playing and it mortified the both of them. Armani swung his tail to the beat, however. "I mean... he hasn't got a new album for ag-"

"John".

"Fine, fine", he turned it off. "I picked them myself. Got the rarest of them all just for you. I consider them all to be an 8".

He solved them all in less than 2 hours. Sherlock reclaimed his reward and John gave him the bottle of honey he had in his jacket. Sherlock looks confused at it.

"What's this?", he said holding it.

"That's your clue as to where we are going".

"We're going to see bees", Sherlock stated.

"Better", John assured him with a smirk.

About an hour later, John parked the car outside a country house and turned to look at Sherlock who was typing furiously on his phone.

"Come on. We're meeting someone", John interrupted him before he could say an excuse.

"I know we're meeting someone. I simply don't know who you might think I want to see at this hour. Especially when all I really wanted for tonight was to simply be with you", Sherlock's voice became softer as he approached the last sentence. John took his right hand and brought it to his lips.

"I promise you that I'm all yours tomorrow. We'll do whatever you want," John came close to his face, looked at him in his eyes before dropping his gaze to Sherlock's lips. The faint brush of Sherlock's exhales tickled his cheek. He wasn't aware he was this close to Sherlock or that he was staring so intently at his lips. John slowly closed the gap between them and took Sherlock's bottom lip between his. It took his partner some seconds to reciprocate, something that had been happening the last days but he was afraid of pointing it out. Oh, when he did- John didn't question Sherlock's lead and slightly opened his mouth and invited Sherlock's tongue to explore his mouth. God, what the man did to him. It was slow, yet the innuendo was there if John was to judge by how Sherlock was thoroughly fucking his mouth. He thought he was the only one affected by their lack of sex the past days. The familiar warmth was pooling above his groin, his senses sharpened. Now very aware of the fingertips making their way across his neck, the expensive scent of Sherlock's cologne, Sherlock groaned in his mouth. Jesus. John slowly took hold of their rhythm and brought them down. John left kisses along Sherlock's neck, making his way up to the tender flesh of his earlobe and bit on it, earning a sharp exhale from his partner's lips. "In fact, we can start tonight. What do you think?" He whispered, voice deep.

He felt Sherlock's hand wrapping around his wrist. "You want this", Sherlock whispered. John felt shivers running down his spine by his partners deep baritone whispered merely millimetres away from his lips. His other hand cupped John's right cheek, John looked at him straight in the eyes. "Let's start now".

Please, he wanted to say. "Later, love", he said instead and got out of the car before Sherlock did something. "Come on! We're late". He rushed to the main entrance and knocked on the door. He felt Sherlock's and Armani's presence next to him before the door was swayed open and a familiar face greeted him.

"John!", the woman said with a bright smile.

"Hello, Stephanie. Sorry, we're late".

"Don't worry, I just came. Come in", she stepped aside and let them inside and closed the door beside them. When she turned around she still had the bright smile on her face. "The famous Sherlock Holmes", her friendly eyes took his image. "Your John here hardly stops talking about you, I was wondering when he'll finally present us", she shook hands with Sherlock. John only saw the light in Sherlock's eyes sparked.

"Doctor Stephanie Harlow?", he asked in amazement.

"You're familiar with my work, then", she cocked her head to the side.

"I am, Doctor Harlow. Apiculture caught my attention when I was merely a child. I have several questions and observations about your last published work".

Stephanie blushed.

"You make me feel very flattered, Mr Holmes".

"Sherlock, please".

John couldn't contain his smile. Sherlock was going to be very distracted.

* * *

Sherlock's mind was racing. He'd never had someone in his life to properly discuss the admirable work and design of bees. He could hardly contain the facts going down a stroll from his mouth: "

"Honey bees have 170 odorant receptors, compared with only 62 in fruit flies and 79 in mosquitoes. Their exceptional olfactory abilities include kin recognition signals, social communication within the hive, and odour recognition for finding food. Their sense of smell is so precise that it could differentiate hundreds of different floral varieties and tell whether a flower carried pollen or nectar from metres away. I can do that too, but not from afar. They're amazing".

And the questions seemed to be infinite: "Why do bees engage in wash boarding? What is the purpose? As far as I know, there is no research on if smoke calms bees, how smoke calms bees and why it calms bees. They've been doing it for years, yet no one has ever bothered to properly explain this. Idiots! "

Doctor Harlow seemed to share his same interest, which was more than Sherlock could have asked for. Her eyes shone bright and her posture and facial expressions told him she was listening to him very carefully and trying to find the best answer (when she had them) to patiently explain him. She even invited him to take a look at the hives she had in the yard. By far, this was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever received. If it can be considered a gift. Sherlock would have liked to take the woman back to London or better yet, stay here with the hives so he could run experiments. It was really a pity they had come at night and it was too dark and cold to go outside. To hell with darkness and cold, he wanted to go outside and observe how the bees created their winter clusters. From the window, he could see several of them. Approximately 6 to 8, he could merely distinguish some dark forms. He sighed. Why was his birthday on bloody January?

"Okay?", John asked as he wrapped a hand around his waist from behind and rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock hummed. Not taking his eyes from the dark shadows on the other side.

"I hope you're hungry enough to eat the turkey. Steph also has her own restaurant. Organic food with no GMO and all that. It does smell delicious".

"John, you think everything is delicious".

"Well, as long as its edible...".

The both of them chuckled. John slipped his other arm around and held him tightly from behind. They stayed that way staring out of the window for some minutes. The silence drew them closer somehow and Sherlock was able to imagine his future here, taking care of bees, away from the buzz of the city with John next to him. Yet... he knew what John felt. Sherlock took both of John's hands and set them aside. He decided it was best to not make eye contact with him and simply leave the room, his heart threatened to simply let the question escape his mouth and he couldn't do it. At least not yet. He turned halfway around and walked towards the door, decided not to turn around. When he opened the door, he was met with the huge form of Armani. The dog immediately started to rub his head against Sherlock's pants, his long furry tail moved from side to side. Sherlock couldn't resist petting his hair, but it proved to be a bad consequence for his suit as the dog took it as encouragement to stand on two legs and leant himself against Sherlock's chest with his front legs. Sherlock almost lost his balance and had to take a few steps back. He scratched Armani's head.

"You can't go around acting like a lap dog, Armani", he meant the words to come out with authority. But how could he use such tone when Armani was also trying to pet him with his big paw? "You're going to ruin all my suits with your fur and saliva", he sighed. "I don't care. Come on, open up. Give me what you have in your mouth. It's not yours". Sherlock took hold of the black box Armani had between his teeth and tried to get it out his mouth. The harder he pulled, the stronger Armani bit down the object. Armani couldn't be more stubborn. Just when Sherlock was about to give up and beg the dog to give him the box, John spoke loud and clear. With an authority that rang through Sherlock's very bones.

"Open, Armani".

Without a doubt, Armani's hold on the box relaxed and Sherlock was able to get the tiny black box away from his strong bite.

"I spend more time with him. How is that he listens to you?"

John walked towards him. A naughty smirk crossing his lips. "He knows who the Alpha is".

"Don't refer to yourself as an animal, please".

"Either way I'm still the Captain".

Sherlock gave him a stern look.

"We should clean this and give it back", Sherlock ignored John's comment. "Stephanie has been very nice and thoughtful with us, I don't wish to be on her blacklist", Sherlock looked around, trying to find something the wipe the saliva off.

"We should open it first", he heard John say.

"Nonsense, John. That's invasion of privacy".

"Not really", John whispered. "It's for you".

Sherlock stared back at John. "What are you talking about? Did you eat one of her flowers in the garden?", he asked curiously

John frowned. "No", he said simply. And in addition: "What's with the flowers?".

Good thing he still didn't know. "Nothing", he replied quickly.

John stared dubiously at him. "Anyways", he said after some time. "That's from me. I'm giving it to you".

Sherlock's brain came to an abrupt stop. There was nothing but blankness anywhere he looked. His heart stopped along with his blood flow and every cell in his body was suddenly frozen. Sherlock stopped existing for some seconds. It was the warm touch on his arm that brought him back to reality and his gaze went to the box he currently had in his hands. It wasn't a ring. Of that he was sure. The box was wrong, John hadn't asked anything and a little shake revealed no sound. What was it really?

"Don't you want to know? Open it!", encouraged John.

Sherlock's eyes met John's before lowering his gaze again to the box and managed the courage to open it. Inside it, Sherlock saw nothing more than paper. (That explained the lack of sound). Unsure and with slightly shaking fingers, his fingers dug into the box until they found the familiar texture of metal. He took it out and saw it.

"Well-" John started. "I knew you would have figured it out, had I given it to you over dinner or so-", Sherlock glanced up to look at John's expression. He was blushed and had a stupid grin. "I thought about what you said, about retiring. I'm sorry- I'm sorry I reacted that way. I remembered what you said a couple of years ago that were you to get bored of the city you would buy a cottage and- and then you proceeded to give me a fast spoken lecture on bees". John looked at him, clearly struggling with his words. "What I mean is- I've never seen you so excited about something. Well, crime scenes and locked room murders aside", he chuckled. "So this house is my gift to you. All of it. Beehives included. And probably the poisonous flowers too. Happy birthday, Sherlock".

Sherlock looked at John. Then at the key in his hand. Then back at John. No words came from him.

"You mean-"

"Yes".

"You bought this house".

"From Stephanie", John took a tentative step towards Sherlock and let his hand squeezed Sherlock's arm tenderly.

"For me?"

"You like it?"

"I do", Sherlock stared at him for a fraction of a second. Trying to choose his next words. But he wouldn't lie to John. "But I have to neglect this John. I can't".

John just chuckled, not believing the words.

"Non-sense, Sherlock", John said with a toothy grin. "No need to be so modest. I know you're dying to go out there".

Sherlock shook his head. Why was John being so dense?

"No, John. You don't understand. I really can 't take this. I don't want this key".

"Uhm- I- I. Why exactly?"

"You don't want this, John".

John frowned in confusion.

"Sherlock, I know I was a little-"

"You're not listening, John', Sherlock blamed, raising his voice by a fraction. "Listen. Listen", he held John by his shoulders and position himself in front of John, so he was all John was able to see. At this, John looked deeply into his eyes and saw John reading all of his emotions in them. John shut his mouth. Sherlock was suddenly unsure of the path he'd taken.

"I'm listening", John insisted. "Tell me".

"John- I", he choked on his own words. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, trying to hold himself together even when he was sure he was falling into oblivion. "I know you don't love me".

John stared blankly at him.

"I won't force you. I've been dragging this for too long. You're really free to go, I won't hold you back. I shouldn't have gone in the first place. You were fine. More than fine. The bags under your eyes were gone, you looked healthy, you even had nice rosy cheeks, for God's sake you even had new hobbies, socialised however you wanted and travelled the world on your own, went to new exotic places and banged the person you wanted. That's more than half the world's dream and if that's yours I will not hold you back. I knew it was a mistake but I couldn't control myself. I wanted you back and thought that I would get away with it", Sherlock came to a brutal halt in his fast-paced speech. And took another deep breath. John was gaping at him. "This was clearly a mistake".

"What on Earth are you on about?" John whispered. Distress painted clearly on his face.

"You heard me".

"Sherlock's that's nonsense!", he exclaimed.

"Then tell me why!", Sherlock exploded. "Tell me why you said those words very convincingly, John! I know when you're lying. And you weren't. Not at that moment. And certainly not with your therapist. So if it's such a nonsense, then you are more than capable of explaining me right here, right now".

The seconds stretches to infinity as Sherlock waited for John's response. Wanted that response badly. Never in his life had he been in more need of John's comforting words. Even if they were a simple "Everything will be okay". He found himself longing for John's touch and strength to calm away that furious voice in his head telling him how stupid he had been. Those words never came. And neither did a simple excuse in the minute Sherlock was awaiting John's response.

"Fine", he said with a nod. "You aren't even capable of coming with a lie", his voice dripped with poison. At his words, John seemed to come out of his trance but was unable to stop Sherlock from turning around and storming out of the house.

"Sherlock-", John tried to hold him by the arm but Sherlock managed to slip away.

"Goodbye, John".

Sherlock exited the door and threw the box to the floor. Not once looking back to John's desperate call.

* * *

If one were to ask John Watson four minutes ago if he'd ever known what emptiness was like, he would have answered with a yes. But right now, as he stood in the middle of the living room staring through the open door at the tall figure entering the car and leaving, he felt absolutely nothing. There was no emotion crossing his expression, no guilty thought crossing his mind. He just stood there and let his heart beat. But even his veins felt drained out. He hadn't notice Stephanie come and stand awkwardly next to him until she took a hold of his hand. And then it all washed him away like a flood.

Fuck. Where had Sherlock come with all those things? But he'd said something. Oh, no. Please, not. He'd heard that conversation. The one with Ella. Why had he been so reckless? John's hand made their way to his face, hiding the sudden burst of emotion the flood had set free.

"John?"

He had to make things right. John squared his shoulders and held back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I need to make a call".

He called Sherlock time and time again until he was sure Sherlock could denounce him to the police for harassment. He never picked up. Well, of course, what was he expecting? For Sherlock to answer? Nothing was supposed to go this way. Sherlock wasn't supposed to know that either. That would explain his strange behaviour the last days. He'd fucked this up.

He'd been so stupid. Sherlock was capable of anything right now. He wasn't stable and it was all his fault. Sherlock said that night it was his most terrible years, just how terrible? Terrible enough to-

Wasting no second, John dialled the only person he knew could at least help Sherlock until he could meet him. It was no use because his phone call was ignored. Mycroft should be aware of what had happened but he'd always answered his phone calls. He called Greg, desperately telling him to be aware of Sherlock's presence in London. John called everyone he thought might know something and called until his battery died. He didn't feel Stephanie's worried eyes on him. Or the sad look of Armani as he stared out of the window where the car had been, waiting for his playing buddy. All John could think was how bad the entire situation had been. But there was a solution. He only needed to find Sherlock.

Stephanie gave him a cup of tea and sat next to him.

"Was that true?", she whispered.

John only nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else. And struggled a couple of times before saying: "But he doesn't know the reason yet". John stared at the distance. Blaming himself for not holding his tongue back and at the same time for not telling him The Truth sooner.

"Will you tell him?"

John sighed. "I need to find him first and that will prove to be a problem", he smiled lazily. Remembering the old times. "No one ever finds him. He finds you".

"Well, that sounds very dramatic".

_Dramatic._

John quickly jumped from the sofa. "I'm borrowing your car!", he yelled as he made his way to the front door without hesitation. "Don't wait for me!"

"To hell with you, Watson", she cursed closely. John turned to watch her putting on her coat next to him. "I'm coming".

Armani seemed to sense the turn of events and was standing next to John. It was probably stupid, but as he looked in Armani's brown, big eyes he saw a certain fire in his eyes. One he felt growing rapidly in his chest. He was officially a nutter, he only hoped it would work.

* * *

He was sure the only reason the last 6 police cars didn't stop him was connected with Mycroft. He thanked his brother for such comprehension. And he was more thankful for the fact Mycroft didn't ask any questions when he called his brother. Sherlock never understood the reason of driving so fast. But now...

He really wasn't aware where he was going to. Too caught up in his head and the feeling of his heart hammering against his chest to pay attention to the road. He saw the outline and bright lights of his London from afar. There was no denying: Sherlock Holmes was a coward. The first time he heard those words broke him, what would have happened had he stayed there long enough for John to recover and say them again? He preferred to run away. Coward, indeed. Sherlock prided himself for being a curious individual, above the rest both intellectually and emotionally. But this, this was the reason he avoided his feelings. The carefully constructed walls Sherlock spent constructing for almost 40 years were useless now. There were two major insecurities in him: being wrong and being vulnerable. The walls he'd built kept these and other people at bay. It only took a certain John Watson to smashed them all down and ultimately break into Sherlock's very core and destroy it. He recognised the feeling of being utterly wrecked. It didn't matter if he was tortured, it didn't matter if he was to die. Nothing mattered. He didn't know what to do anymore and it was stupid. Really, it was. How could he, an intelligent person, not know what to do?

He heard his fat brother's voice. _"Don't get involved"._

He knew not to, but he did it either way. But what was he supposed to do now? John's face. God, John's face. He merely looked at Sherlock for 97 seconds, no emotion on his face. No movement. Nothing. Not even a frown. He was caught off-guard, of course.

Sherlock muttered the only thing that anchored him the at the moment, the only thing that made sense to him.

_Number 89: Actinium. Symbol: Ac. Weight: 227. Smelts at 1323 K and has a boiling point of 3471 K._

He raced across the familiar streets, the traffic slowing his speed down and eventually his thoughts. The closer he got to his destination, the clearer his thought process became. His heart rate calmed down to normal and he'd stopped shaking with rage. The elements and their properties soothed him like his mother's lullaby's did when he was a child and soon there was nothing but silence in Sherlock's mind.

He'd arrived at his destination, not bothering to lock the car and he walked inside the hotel, took the elevators to the master suite. He hadn't done this in years, but right now he needed the only person he'd always trust and never let him down. Sherlock took a deep breath and schooled his expression before knocking on the door.

"Sherlock?" his mother said surprised. Unsurprisingly she was still in casual clothes despite the hour. Some habits never changed.

"Would you mind if I stay the night?", he'd tried to ask in a neutral tone, yet he heard how his voice shook at the last word.

His mother could be insufferable at times. But it was her at the end of the who always helped to cure his injuries. This was just another one. She moved aside quickly to let him in, he felt the worrying look of her mother as he walked past her. He knew she was reading him, this was more than suspicious behaviour and she would not let the matter go so easily. Sherlock turned around and looked straight into her eyes, hoping to tell her with his look to stay silence because he didn't want solitude. He needed a quiet companion. She seemed to comprehend as she merely squeezed his arm, her eyes worried. At that moment he knew he would be fine, she would tend to his necessities and would understand.

"Some tea, yeah?", she said tenderly.

Sherlock nodded. "I'll use the bathroom", he excused himself.

He made his way to through the room and locked himself. He looked himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and puffy, face pale and lips chapped and swollen. When had he started crying? He couldn't remember. He washed his face, hoping to sort himself together before coming out again. He heard his father coming out and talk to Mummy but paid no attention as he tried to bring his breathing under control. when he closed the tab, his eyes wandered through the products his mother left on the table and there as if it was mocking Sherlock in the face, was a perfume bottle. He grabbed it immediately, opened the lid and smelled it. It was the same as the one John had on his body four days ago. He opened the door angrily and practically run to his mother that was standing next to his father, both looking at the television screen.

"Sherlock, where did you leave John last?", she asked when she heard the door slamming close.

"It doesn't matter", he spat and took hold of his mother's face in his hands. "John was here yesterday days ago, what did you talk?", he asked hungrily.

"Answer me first, young man!", his mother scolded him. 

"No time for that, woman! Answer me!" 

_"William Sherlock Scott Holmes listen to me!"_

_"What?!"_

"Is that John?", she pointed to the screen behind him. Without wasting a millisecond, Sherlock turned around immediately and looked at the tv.

Sherlock's heart stopped. There, on the very roof he'd fallen from, was the familiar figure of John wrapped in his black coat illuminated by the blinding white light of a helicopter. Most shockingly, he was pointing a gun under his chin.

* * *

He felt Sherlock's presence before he even opened the door. He always managed to radiate a certain aura it was impossible for John not to feel it. That night at the airport when he tended to his injuries, it was palpable for him before he even touched the man. That first night, he subconsciously realised who he was actually dealing with. John tried to blame his hopes and emotions for such feeling and tried not to give it any more thoughts. That was of course until he was presented with Sherlock's body and he observed scars, flesh and bones.

The door behind him closed but he didn't turn towards the sound of the footsteps carefully making their way towards him. The way his feet sounded against the floor gave his feelings away. They were slow, calculated and most importantly-

"You surprise me", he heard the deep voice of Sherlock above the noise going around them. He couldn't help but smile at the skill he still possessed. His eyes remained glued to the horizon of the city. The moon and dark sky had been the only witnesses of his thoughts. And consequently, the balm for the wounds Sherlock opened earlier. Its dark embrace swallowed his frustration like a black hole and left him with a clear head. His eyes searched the moon again, to remind himself of 1969 and that with enough effort and dedication nothing was supposed to be impossible. Ultimately, it was its sight, shining a bright white colour and slowly fading away to mix with the sky, big enough to see craters and standing proud, that gave him the strength to do what he never thought he had to do for Sherlock.

"Did it ever occur you the wreck you were about to cause in my mind, in my life before you jumped?" His eyes had closed, fighting the locked feelings he never talked about. "How exactly did it occur you to jump from the very same building I considered part of me for years, trained here, saved lives here and met you? From all the buildings in this goddamn city, you had to jump from this one. You killed yourself and destroyed not only the memories I had of you but the ones of my early adulthood and left me mortified. You were the only person that was worth saving and I couldn't save you". He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "Stand next to me, Sherlock".

"No", Sherlock's reply was immediate.

"I won't repeat myself after. Stand. Next. To me", he saw the long figure walk towards the edge of the building carefully and felt Sherlock's body heat as he came to stand next to him. "You know what made it worse? The phone call", he whispered, afraid he said it too loud, he would be able to hear Sherlock's voice in his ear. Along with Sherlock's broken tone, his fear at the tip of his tongue, the tears coming down his face. "You saved me from that very first night. Yet I couldn't do that for you. Do you know how hard it was to cope with that? When people are absolutely sure they want to end their lives, they leave a note or nothing at all. But you had to call".

"I'm sorry".

"Don't be", the last words hung in the air. John breathed Sherlock's confusion. "I don't need you to tell you where I was. I know you remember. I also know you felt the rush running through your veins at the prospect of your own death", with those final words, he turned to see Sherlock properly. His short hair was plastered to his scalp and glistening with sweat. He was flushed and breathing heavily. But his eyes were gone, remembering the past events without a doubt. His lips were chapped by the cold and John could see the faint tremor in his hands hidden in his pockets. Sherlock blinked, licked his lips and turned to face him.

"When you jumped-", John started but stopped as his words got stuck in his throat. "When you jumped, you took your life from me, but you also took my heart away with you".

The next happened in less than two seconds but John catalogued everything in his mind. From the way Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple evidently moving, to the way his face seemed to pale. The hurt looks in his eyes and the broken inhalation. John grabbed his wrist before he could completely turn away.

"I'm not done", he said very seriously.

"I don't think I can take the rest", Sherlock said poisonously and managed to get free of John's grasp and started walking away.

John remained standing at the edge but turned around to watch Sherlock from behind. "If you take another step, I will jump", he said loud and steady when Sherlock arrived at the door. Sherlock stopped and turned.

"You wouldn't", he said confidently despite his posture.

John cocked his head and looked intently at Sherlock. "You want to know why I'm free?", he spat the words. "I paid the price, Sherlock. I lost everything. I lost the ability at the one job that made me feel useful, I lost my parents, my wife, my daughter. I lost you twice, Sherlock. Then I became free. Don't underestimate my emptiness at the moment and come back here because I'm not done".

Sherlock sighed but walked confidently towards him until he was next to John. This time alert and much closer than initially.

"If you jump, I jump after you, John", John heard the resolution in those words.

"I know", he admitted. "You'll try to stop me first, though".

John started to take off his coat and threw it aside. A couple of seconds later, his ugly jumper followed suit.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock grabbed him by the wrists as he unbuttoned his shirt. John simply broke himself free from Sherlock's grasp and took two steps away from Sherlock.

"I' exposing myself physically so your big impossible brain makes the connection that I am about to expose my thoughts", the shirt fell from his shoulders and was blown away by the wind. The cold wind enveloped him and for a second his vision turned black and a shiver ran down his spine, leaving an electrifying feeling across his body. Sherlock's eyes were wide as saucers, lips slight part and his eyes wild with terror and confusion.

"John are you m-"

"Tell me", he interrupted Sherlock. "what is love? I know you've memorised the entire dictionary. So tell me".

His voice was steady, but he might have underestimated the cold wind against his skin as it forced its way to his marrows. Fuck it. He was doing it already. He yanked his vest over his head and threw it aside. "Tell me, Sherlock", he pushed Sherlock to answer, desperately in cold.

Sherlock looked at him in confusing, mouth slightly open he soon gained control and said automatically: "A strong feeling of affection and or sexual attraction to someone".

John smiled. "I felt both towards you. I felt both towards many people in my life if I am honest. And I'm not lying I realised I never loved you at that moment". He started unbuttoning his flies with ridiculously shaky fingers. "What's love for you, Sherlock?" 

"A chemical defect", Sherlock left his answer to that. 

Although he knew the answer, he had to hear it because that confirmed him Sherlock was just as human as he was. It didn't hide the pain Sherlock's point of view caused him. 

"I know", he tucks his shoes off. They fell all the way down to the ground. "what love is. And it's certainly not what I feel for you".

"Will you please stop? I get the poi-", Sherlock said irritated.

"Shut up!" It literally pains John to see that single tear running down Sherlock's cheek. "A normal person would have cut all contact with you once you came back. Truthfully, that would have been easier for my life. Less dramatic and painful for sure". His jeans accompanied the rest of his clothes flying around the rooftop. "Look at my scars, Sherlock. At all of them", his voice started to shake, whether it was the cold or the nervous he felt at that moment he didn't know. "Tell me how I feel about them". he commanded. The cold was too much he had to clench his jaw, fist his hands, flex his thighs and curl his toes to stop shaking.

"Hatred, disgust, regret", he replied immediately.

"I feel honoured", John corrected. He saw the exact moment Sherlock held his breath. "I rather have them on me than to see them on you".

"Why?"

John took a step closer.

"A strong feeling of affection and sexual attraction doesn't start to explain it. Or all your chemical explanations. You know how many times, I've said those words to others? A lot. Do you really think I would feel the same for you? They're useless to say them when it comes to you. I don't "feel" a strong feeling of affection or sexual attraction to you. I have affection and sexual interest in you, nonetheless, but that's not important when it comes to us. I need you, Sherlock. You are the reason I am somehow still alive. I am the reason, you are somehow still alive. Without you, I'm empty, I don't function properly and nothing matters. You gave me purpose when the world gave me trash. No one has ever done that on such a personal level", John took another step. He was standing much closer now and in a swift movement, he yanked Sherlock's shirt open, all the buttons were ripped from his shirt and fell to the floor. Sherlock was very still, apparently, very shocked too. John took the opportunity to take his coat and shirt off leaving them both bare chested. John's hand lingered above Sherlock's heart and when his hand made contact with Sherlock's skin, he returned from his trance. "Look at our scars, Sherlock", he whispered as he took Sherlock's hand. "On your hands, on our arms, on our chests, on your back. We've killed", John brings his left hand to Sherlock's nape. "We've died", his right arm caresses Sherlock's bullet scar. The one Mary left there. "Yet we've lived for each other", he slowly brings Sherlock's head down until their foreheads are touching. His breathing was erratic. The pressure he felt in his chest threatened to explode. He looked at Sherlock in the eye because he had to see. He needed Sherlock. And Sherlock had to see what he was truly feeling in his eyes. His left hand wandered shakingly across Sherlock's scalp. Feeling the texture of his hair between his fingers. His hand came to rest at his nape and tucked carefully on the hair as he took a broken breath. His face was wet, he could feel the tears hot against his dead-cold skin but he didn't care. Sherlock needed to know, he wanted Sherlock to know how painful it was to lose him, to see it in his eyes and not his anger. For him to understand, if he was to go, John would not make it. Not this time. "We're not two anymore, we are one. It's time for us to finally live together, Sherlock. Not apart, it doesn't work and it never has. Instead, it's been hell for the both of us, I know. I'm not sorry for not saying those words, Sherlock but there's not a word for what you really are to me. I should hate you for everything you've done", John's hand lingered over Sherlock's bullet wound. "But our scars remind me, what I feel goes both ways no matter how many times we've fucked up and I promise you to show you exactly how much you mean to me from this date until our last breath together".

Sherlock only looked back. Blinking. John also looked back waiting for a reaction. He was nervous to what Sherlock's reply would be. He could nod or burst in anger for all it mattered. Sherlock was like a-

"You're such a Drama Queen".

And Sherlock was enveloping in his arms. So tightly, John hadn't realised how much he needed it. The both of them. Wasting no second, John embraced his man in his arms and buried his face on Sherlock's chest.

"You weren't answering my phone calls", John's voice was muffled. Sherlock held him impossibly tighter. "And Armani was really sad, he hasn't slept. I needed to find you".

He felt Sherlock's laugh coming from his chest against his ear. It died slowly. "I'm sorry, John", he heard Sherlock whisper. John's hand travelled up and down Sherlock's back soothingly.

"Don't be. I should have been better at communicating this. From the start. Now we're standing almost naked on the rooftop of a hospital in the middle of the bloody winter. We're going to get hypothermia very soon".

"I don't mind as long as they let us share the same bed".

"I doubt they'll let 2 patients share the same bed".

"Then I want to die this way", Sherlock held him tighter. "Holding you".

"I'm sorry, Sherlock", John's voice just whispered against his skin.

"Don't do this to me again, John. Don't- Don't. I hear you say that and then you came home _stinking_ of another women's perfume. What was I supposed to think? And you left every day and I didn't follow you because I knew I had crossed a boundary already with my eavesdro-", John knew it was hard for him to finish but he didn't need him to finish. He already knew what it meant.

"I know, I know, I know", he replied reassuringly. "That woman was your mother, Sherlock. She's very enamoured with me, Sherlock. You know it's pointless to stop her". 

Sherlock chuckled. "We do like old grumpy men in hideous jumpers, though".

"Shut it", John replied. "Although I am still not old". 

"My grumpy man in hideous jumpers", Sherlock kisses the side of his head. 

"I promise you, Sherlock. I promise you. No matter what, I'll stay by your side".

The roars of the helicopter above bring them back to the moment. 

"We're going to be on the news", Sherlock pointed out.

"Good", John said immediately. "Let them know so everyone can stop flirting with us".

"Is this your way of claiming me? Without a ring?", Sherlock said very seriously it made John chuckle.

"No, Sherlock", he looked up at Sherlock's eyes. "I'm just- I'm just yours".

Sherlock's serious face made way to a glowing smile. "I'm yours too, John".

Sherlock planted his lips on John's forehead and John was able to feel every word Sherlock was saying in his head. It's alright. And it was more than all alright because in those minutes while they were wrapped around each other, they shared more than just body heat.

They became oblivious of the cheering crowd below, the flashes of the cameras, the blinding light of the news helicopter and the steps of the firemen as they came to them. Because, at that moment, the universe decided not to be lazy and everyone there witnessed the exact moment Sherlock's and John's pulse started to slow down and their heartbeats synchronised. And they were no longer two separate people. Together, they became one heart and one soul. Together, they were reborn. Together, they lived. And as everything else they did, they left the world together. But their names and story still live among a new generation and continued to other generations. Maybe, just maybe, they will never really have an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I'm a sucker for happy endings too. And Snow Patrol and dogs and them being childish. I'm not that mean, after all. But it took a lot to get there. When I wrote the last word I was so happy and sad at the same time. But, I finished. And you finished. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck with the story, left kudos and comments it means the world to me. Sometimes, when I was stuck, I read your comments and all the ideas came flowing. So you deserve a big thank you and many many many kudos. 
> 
> Like people... I want to hear John make a mind-blowing confession. Bet it isn't that obvious. I mean after watching TST I want to knock some sense into John but heeey that means they gotta talk things through. JOHN YOU BETTER CONFESS THIS SEASON. I hate Gatiss, he said TLD is going to be a punch in the gut but I already received several punches to my face in the first episode so I literally have no idea how the third episode will be because surely, I will be dead by then.


End file.
